


The Journey of Polaris

by adriatic



Series: This Flawed Little Universe of Ours [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Adulthood, Artist!Reader, Childhood Friends, Coming of Age, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Growing Up, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, Idiots in Love, Mild Language, Mild canon divergence, Neighbors, Pining, Platonic Relationships, Post-Time Skip, Reader-Insert, Slice of Life, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, When I Say Slow Burn I Mean SLOW, betaed after 10, cameos from atsumu, if you squint theres kuroken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 142,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25479691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adriatic/pseuds/adriatic
Summary: A Tokyo-based tale featuring: you, a wandering artist, Bokuto Koutarou, an ace aspiring for greatness, and Akaashi Keiji, who's figuring it all out; a tale of winners and losers, things found and things lost, in the ever-raging storm that is life, adulthood, and growing up.ORtwo-steps-away-from-breaking meets loudest on earth. what could go wrong?
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Reader, Bokuto Koutarou/Reader, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: This Flawed Little Universe of Ours [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898725
Comments: 89
Kudos: 177





	1. sunday nights are work nights

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Thousand and One Nights](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12126519) by [wayward_s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wayward_s/pseuds/wayward_s). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For reasons unknown, strength in the arts meant a karmic tradeoff for sociability and any semblance of being whatever society deemed _normal._
> 
> And this, you were no exception to.

The universe was messing with you today; there were no two ways around it.

For the most part, people spend Sundays as a day of rest. As the day before re-entering the dreaded Monday, Sundays are the last bastion of relaxation. Nobody wants to work on Sundays, so they all strived to tie up their loose ends in hopes to get a moment’s breather. Even the word itself gives off a lazy, casual vibe.

However, because you’re special (read: a procrastinator), your Sunday today is spent in anything _but_ a rest.

Things were already going south when your alarm, which you forgot to turn off yesterday, woke you up at eight in the morning. Unable to fall back asleep, you started your morning routine and found out that you were all out of toothpaste. You then wandered over to your kitchen to make some breakfast, of which you ended up burning the eggs.

(and you were also out of juice when you checked the fridge.)

Eating the salvageable parts of your eggs and settling for a cup of scalding tea instead, you check your emails on your laptop at your desk.

The first one:

“ _This is just a reminder about the commission deadline for Mr. Nakayoshi tomorrow. As he is one of our esteemed clients, it would be best if you could send us the painting before—”_

You slam the laptop lid shut. Cue the angry bite of egg yolk.

The commission came from a local portrait studio that you were contracted to during your junior year—this one the studio accidentally emailed it to you but you accepted without hesitation, since some more money never hurt a college student. The head of the studio knew you well enough and (albeit grudgingly) let you do the job.

Your head turns to the painting on your easel.

A face, with no face, stares back at you.

In other words—it’s a head without any facial features. Just the bare outlines of a nose, lips, and eyes. As if somebody had stretched a skin-toned nylon sock over it. _Son of Man_ , but without the dangling green apple in front.

It’s supposed to be Mr. Nakayoshi’s wife. And it’s not like you’ve ever had trouble with faces before, but you just _might’ve_ forgotten about it. 

Definitely _not_ because you didn’t want to paint her face.

Definitely _not_ because you forgot how to paint a face.

And because of these reasons, you’re definitely _not_ pushing the completion of this painting to the afternoon.

Instead, you find yourself standing in the convenience store a couple blocks away from your apartment, in front of the drinks section. You just wanted to get this over with, was what you told yourself. Best to do shopping before you forget about it.

The fourth red flag of the day: this store was out of the juice you liked.

(the saving grace was that they did have toothpaste.)

 _But holy shit,_ you think, staring at the rows of cartons and bottles all taped with various brands and flavors that were all Not Your Favorite. _What’s a person gotta do for some juice?_

Here’s where you and Other People separate again: other people would’ve either a) picked out another flavor from the same brand, settling for something second best, b) picked out the same flavor from a different brand to switch things up, or c) given up on the juice entirely.

But again, since you’re special (read: stubborn and spiteful), you start your hunt for this particular brand around Ueno. 

And again, not because you’re putting off the painting for Nakayoshi.

Except the universe really _did not_ want you to get said juice. 

After the fourth store ending in a bust, you decide to call somebody instead. It would be much easier to go to the supermarket, but you wanted the satisfaction of the juice being scanned by a convenience store clerk and then to finally relish in its taste.

Which made you all the more motivated to get the damn juice.

 _Really,_ you think to yourself. _I’m spending my Sunday on a wild goose chase for juice. There are definitely better ways to spend a Sunday. I_ _t doesn’t even sound like a word anymore._

But it’s good exercise, you conclude, and any artist could always use some more of that.

So now you’re standing in front of the automatic doors, phone against your ear, plastic bag from the first store in your other hand. The chilly autumn wind whistles by, out of either mockery or pity, you’re not sure which.

“Hello?” comes the voice after a couple rings.

“Yo, Keiji-kun.” You told him your dilemma.

He gives you a silence so long you think he fell asleep, until—

“Er. I’m not sure,” he replies, sounding equal parts annoyed and confused. As he always did, truthfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever checked for that. Do you want me to?”

“No, all good. I’ll just go over there myself. Thanks!”

After taking the subway out to Ariake, twenty minutes away, you finally find the juice in the first convenience store your eyes land upon. With triumph spread across your features, you make your purchase plus a croquette for lunch. You’re sitting on the train back to your apartment now, munching down on the croquette (thankfully not burnt), watching the city fly by through a window. Your morning of troubles is now over and you can finally rest.

Except it doesn't.

Your phone rings.

“Keeping this short—do you think you can drop by my apartment today?” your classmate asks.

The train makes a stop and the doors slide open with a hiss. A stream of people shuffle around. The doors close again and the train starts moving along.

“What for?”

“Weeeell…” The way he draws out the word grips your heart with impending doom. “There’s a certain material I need for my project I’m working on right now at school that we don’t have, so...” You could practically see him going into a 90 degree bow. “I have food to offer if you can get it for me! Tempura from Tenya and their special noodle soup too! You’re the closest one to school, can you please help me?”

“Mori. You had the time to get tempura but not whatever you needed from your place?”

“Battles can’t be fought on an empty stomach.”

This you couldn’t argue with.

You sigh. “You live… where?”

He gives you the address. You look at the map posted near the door. Whether a silver lining or your death sentence, the train does make a stop nearby.

You briefly entertain the idea of turning him down as the sound of the train chugging along the tracks fills the silence. It would be easy to come up with a convenient excuse. Sick, busy, currently on a spiritual journey up to Wakkanai all flash through your mind. But Mori has a surprisingly good lie detector despite you not being all that close with him. Annoyingly persistent too, in the way that eventually breaks you down.

_Best to just get this over with._

And tempura did sound nice. Fried food always did the soul wonders, somebody once said.

“Fine, fine. I’ll come over in fifteen.” you reply, exasperation thick in your tone. “Throw in some coffee in the mix. I don’t care if you get it from Mikami-sensei or Galant.”

You hear a large sigh of relief on the other end, sounding like it took off a couple years’ worth of burden. “Thank you so much! You’re a lifesaver. See you then.” He hangs up, and the dial tone rings in your ears. You look at the time. It’s almost two in the afternoon.

You slink further in your seat as you shove your phone in your pocket. Leaning your head back, you wonder just what else was going to be thrown at you today.

* * *

Turns out, the universe still has a couple nasty surprises in store for you.

Needless to say, once you finally return to your apartment, you’re very, _very_ tired. After delivering the material to Mori (who thanked you endlessly upon your arrival), the fifth red flag popped up—elevator maintenance.

“Sorry, miss. We’ll be done in about an hour or so,” the worker said with no hint of an apologetic look on their face.

With leaden legs you walk up the seven flights of stairs, bag of juice, toothpaste, and tempura in your hand now a heavy weight. On the fourth floor you almost trip, and you wonder briefly what sort of karma you’ve collected for your punishment to be delivered today. Exercise was good, but this was just too much. A slew of curses escape your breath as you haul yourself up each step. Left, right.

By the time you reach your door, you’re all but dragging your body across as you unlock the door and barely stop yourself from crashing onto the cold tile of your genkan. You stumble over to your desk and turn on the lamp. It flickers for a bit, then the warm glow floods the dark room, welcoming you back. Your head thumps onto the desk, shoulders slumped over.

You can feel the gaze— _presence_ , to be exact—of Nakayoshi’s wife on your back, impatiently reminding you of its incompleted state. You still have tomorrow, but Monday meant classes and you’re not sure if you could finish and deliver it to the studio in time.

“Please… spare me for tonight…” you mutter, still not moving from your desk. The beginning sign of a headache is now throbbing in your skull. Your hands, however, have a mind of their own, and after five minutes they reach out for your jar of paintbrushes.

You bring up the picture of Nakayoshi’s wife on your screen after dragging yourself upright in your chair. Mid-thirties to early-forties, if you had to guess. No signs of aging on her face, which is nicely rounded. Her eyes, while completely digital, carried a calming presence through the screen. Overall, a graceful look. Most likely did a couple modeling jobs when she was younger.

You then stare at the painting.

The painting greets you hello.

_How the fuck is it doing that?_

You furrow your brows. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to send it like this. The more that you’re looking at it, the more its faceless quality is growing on you.

 _No, better not do that,_ the shred of rationality inside you says. _Already running up on time._ Besides, pulling off a stunt like that for an “esteemed client” spells certain ruin. 

With a sense of resignation, you dip your paintbrush in a muted shadow color, about to start blocking in the nose—

Yelling.

A lot of it.

The final red flag of the day pops up.

It already started since you entered your apartment, but on a much more subdued scale, building up as time passed on, until it reached a climax at this moment.

Artists have peculiar habits when they’re working. This varies wildly, ranging from working solely when hungover to working purely with photographs. You wouldn’t consider yours that out of pocket: you can’t work in loud places. Too much distraction, too much annoyance.

So when the apartment next to you erupts into a crazed frenzy, sounding just like a typical drunk college party for the nth time this month, your paintbrush drops from your hand in defeat.

 _Holy fuck,_ you think. _I can’t catch a goddamn break._

Cheap apartments and thin walls go hand-in-hand. When you found this place, you were just glad to have a separate living room and bedroom (though they still ended up merging into a giant makeshift studio) and be only a ten-minute walk away from campus. Somehow, having noisy neighbors completely flew out of your mind when you signed the lease.

When the first party started, you didn’t mind that much, believing it to be a one time thing.

Then it happened again.

And again.

And again.

Until the number rose to eight today.

The things you’d give to slap Past You in the face and tell her to stay in the dorms. 

(on Sunday nights too, on all days. who in their right mind parties on Sundays?)

Your store-bought earbuds you picked up (on sale) were no match for their noise levels, unless you wanted to shatter your eardrums for a good four hours. The wall in front of you is practically shaking now. Pretty soon, drunk off-key singing would start and you were _not_ looking forward to another bad rendition of a depressing _enka_ song. Your head throbs some more in memory of last time and you hope you still have a couple of painkillers left. 

An urge to scream bubbles in the back of your throat, but releases as a frustrated sigh at the state of things.

Everything was too bright and too loud.

Your fingernails drum idly on your desk. Then again, was it really that big of a deal? Maybe they were celebrating something amazing. And using the previous parties as a gauge, this one should be over in a couple hours. If you’ve already handled that seven times in the past, you could do this one too, right?

 _There’s no reason for them to be celebrating every damn Sunday_ , a nagging voice in your head argues back. _You’ll spontaneously combust if this keeps up for the rest of the year!_

Mild annoyances grow like weeds—inevitably out-of-hand until there’s no choice but to raze the whole field to the ground.

It’s the only option left now.

And with everything that happened _today_ , you can’t take this anymore.

You abruptly stand up from your chair. Briskly walking to the front door, not bothering to change out of your slippers, you swing open the door. You’re immediately greeted by a blast of cold air and you consider going back inside to get a jacket, but talking to the neighbor shouldn’t take too long.

The door on your left is the target. You stand in front of it, the number 74 on a rusting plate staring right back at you as you shiver a bit. Even from here, some phrases from the conversations inside are audible—something about being the king of shots? 

_Once this is done, I won’t have to talk to them ever again._

You take a deep breath and steady yourself. Three sharp knocks on the door. 

What feels like eternity ticks by as you wait with a bated breath. You're considering running away, but your feet are trapped in place, the soles of your slippers stuck with superglue on the ground.

“Hey hey hey! You’re late! What took you so long—” The front door swings open, and you’re greeted by a tall man with the roundest golden eyes you’ve seen, leaning against the doorframe. The yellow fluorescent bulb shining directly next to him especially highlights them, shadowing the rest of his features.

“Wait. Who the hell are you?” He blinks twice in confusion.

“Neighbor next door! You guys are really damn loud and annoying, can you keep it down? Some of us have some work to do for the night,” you glower, crossing your arms over your chest.

_Wait, should I have introduced myself right there? That was pretty rude wasn’t it?_

You aren’t prepared for what comes next.

“Woah there, no need to be so angry!” His round eyes widened even more. “Oh! I have an idea! Why dontcha spend some time partying with us? Pinky promise it’ll be fun!” The man grins, completely ignoring your previous statement.

_Scratch that._

Right there and then, you decided you couldn't care less about how you presented yourself; if his permanent image of you was of a screaming, annoyed gremlin, so be it.

“Did you not hear what I said? I don’t have time to get wasted and invite strangers into my apartment like you, even if a can of beer does sound pretty appealing right now!” Like a chain of firecrackers set off, the words explode out of your mouth nonstop, the pent-up anger of today crashing like a wave. “So I’m asking for mine and this apartment’s sanity to keep it down, otherwise I’ll take this to the front office! The landlord here is pretty scary! Everybody here knows that! Goodbye and goodnight!"

You angrily march back to your apartment, giving your door a good slam shut, the echoing sound and a confused man left in your wake.

As soon as you step foot into your apartment, your legs almost give way underneath you.

You’re just plain exhausted now. You let out a long exhale as you lean against the door.

Retrospectively, there were many opportunities to complain to your neighbor. But concepts like _politeness_ and _courtesy_ , when you’ve been surrounded by people who could be summed up as _eccentric_ sometimes fly out of your mind.

Here’s the thing all artists hate to admit: their social skills could stand to be better.

For reasons unknown, strength in the arts meant a karmic tradeoff for sociability and any semblance of being whatever society deemed _normal_. 

And this, you were no exception to.

You scoff.

Really, you should be glad. It could’ve been much worse.

Your eyes scan your dingy apartment, exuding solitude with how un-homely it looks. Your neighbor’s sounded like fifteen were crammed in that place. You stalk back to your desk, wondering just how one could fit so many people into such a small space.

_Maybe if you weren’t so—_

Juice runs down your throat to push _that_ feeling down. You clutch the hard-fought bottle in your hand, drinking up to the last drop in an attempt to forget your train of thought.

It’s lukewarm. Not even refreshing anymore. But it’ll do its job for the night. You had a face to work on, and brooding would get you nowhere with it.

The universe made it quite clear that your life couldn't coexist with the concept of happiness a long time ago.

Your foot finds your paintbrush, located near the back leg of your table and you roll it towards you, picking it up with your hand. You stretch your arms outwards, cracking your joints in the process. The third staredown with Nakayoshi’s wife begins. _Ding ding ding!_ a bell rings out.

By the looks of it, tonight was going to be another long one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everybody! this is loosely inspired by the fic that tore my heart into pieces 1 year ago by [wayward_s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wayward_s/pseuds/wayward_s) (if ur reading this hi aaa) you don't need to read theirs b4hand to know what happens here but read it anyways if you havent because that Shit Good.
> 
> (also yall see what i did with the release date of this fic and the last update of ataon i call that universe alignment magic)
> 
> to clarify some things:
> 
> *This story takes place before the MSBY Black Jackals vs. Schweiden Adlers match, but still during the Challenger Arc (2017-18)  
> *MSBY Black Jackals is based in Osaka but I went way too deep in this story before knowing this so uh they practice in Tokyo now  
> *There are some headcanon elements in here to fit with the characters being older.  
> *You have a very set background/personality (in case you could't tell already)
> 
> next chapter button already available again? yes this is a double update to kick things off!


	2. sunday nights are party nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But whoever’s living next door hasn’t even shown their face, why would they be annoyed? They're probably out partying anyways, I barely see them around!"
> 
> //
> 
>  _Outrageous_ would also be another word he’d use to describe you, like a melting pot of every natural disaster possible, a walking time bomb that could explode at any minute.

There’s some things people can know about another without even a word shared between them.

Such a bond usually takes years to develop, depending on the person. But once it does, it’s hard to not notice.

For example: to say Bokuto is elated today is an understatement.

The Black Jackals’ match today against the Railway Warriors was one that signalled a strong start for the team in the new season—a complete sweep. While the Adlers dominated the previous years, Bokuto was confident that this year would be _their_ year.

Also, there were a lot of fans in the crowd. That was always a plus.

So Bokuto’s over the moon right now, the adrenaline from being on the court still bouncing around inside him.

And of course, Akaashi could pick up on this as soon as the game ended. Only a glance at Bokuto was all he needed.

“Let’s party at my place tonight!” Bokuto exclaims, wrapping his arms around Kuroo and Akaashi’s shoulders as they exit the Sumida gym, the sun beginning to set. Just a couple of hours ago the entrance was jam-packed with people trying to get in, but now only a couple of stragglers remained at the entrance. “It’s been a while since we all last hung out, hasn’t it?”

This suggestion was something Akaashi also foresaw coming.

Bokuto Koutarou became a much more stable presence as he grew older, but no matter how much he aged, he’d always retain his outgoing self. In Adult Bokuto, this manifested in the form of constant parties and get-togethers. Maybe it’s his way of making up for the lost college years—the fun moments, not the ones of being overwhelmed by a mountain of work.

Akaashi sometimes thinks there’s more to it. Still, he never bothered—nor cared enough—to ask.

“We hung out just a bit back for Sarukui’s birthday, don’t tell me you forgot already?” Kuroo asks, sighing exasperatedly. “Does your brain do a full rest at the end of the week? Must be nice.”

“And not all of us have the time. I have my internship tomorrow morning,” Akaashi adds, pushing up his glasses. “With that said, you’ll definitely say ‘forget about it’,” he mutters to himself.

“Forget about it! It’s Sunday, worry about tomorrow’s stuff tomorrow! We’re adults, let’s have some fun!” Bokuto laughs, slapping the intern editor’s back with a little more force than normal. Akaashi barely manages to catch his balance in time.

Most people would definitely think it strange to host a party on a Sunday. But for people like Bokuto and the other pro players, where their games played on the weekends, the celebration naturally fell on Sunday.

“We don’t all have the same idea as fun like you do,” a third voice from behind them retorts. Kenma adjusts his bag on his shoulder, his bleached hair loosely tied back in a bun. “Plus, with how many parties you’re having, your neighbors are definitely getting annoyed.”

And this, Akaashi is absolutely sure of as well. At least for one neighbor in particular.

“But whoever’s living next door hasn’t even shown their face, why would they be annoyed? They're probably out partying anyways, I barely see them around!” Bokuto nods his head, completely confident in this statement. “They’d definitely agree with me, Sunday nights are for fun! Anyways, you guys better not be late! Come at the usual time!” Bokuto waves goodbye as he rushes to the bus stop, barely making it on the bus. 

The three of them collectively let out a long sigh, watching the bus drive by until it’s out of sight.

“He really is a carefree guy, isn’t he? I’ve got nothing else to do, so I’ll go. Kenma, you’re coming as collateral. See you then, Akaashi,” Kuroo says, while Kenma groans in response. They head to the subway station, leaving Akaashi alone in front of the gym.

Truthfully, they never missed out on Bokuto’s parties either, despite voicing their constant complaints. Everybody has their various reasons to let loose for a night and forget about life for a couple hours, after all. For Akaashi, he’s two-thirds there out of courtesy and one-third wondering whether you’ll do something about it.

Akaashi begins his walk back to his dorm, hoping to at least get some of his assignments finished before going to Bokuto’s.

* * *

“Aaaand another!”

For no reason in particular, Kuroo’s shirtless as he downs another shot of tequila, slamming it on the table next to five empty glasses, though the tiny apartment’s pretty hot now. Out of the four of them, Kuroo’s the heaviest drinker—Kenma called it quits after his fourth and Bokuto was already somewhat dysfunctional after his second. Akaashi refused to touch a glass, opting for sparkling water instead—he’s not jeopardizing his internship tomorrow on a Bokuto whim.

The perpetrator pours himself another drink, his hand wobbling and spilling some of it on the carpet. “Ah shit, oops! Tomorrow morning Bokuto can deal with that!” He downs his drink and flops back onto the couch, sinking into the cushions. “Anyways, as I was saying… Wait, what was I saying again?”

It's noisy.

 _Extremely_ so, given how many people are currently crammed in Bokuto's apartment.

The other people are also in varying stages of drunk—Atsumu is slurring his already heavily-accented speech next to an expressionless Suna at the kitchenette, while Kai’s holding a couple glasses of water, giving them to the most inebriated. Komi, Sarukui, Washio, and Konoha are out talking on the balcony, while Fukunaga’s listening intently (mostly for a potential standup routine later) to a drunk Yamamoto singing a bad rendition of an old song.

It had certainly been a while since everybody got together—how they all managed to have free time today was a miracle and how they all fit inside another—the only missing were the overseas people and some of the younger ones (and Sakusa, but that was expected.)

“You ever wonder what kinda drunk everybody would be? Shrimpy, Tsukki, Ushiwaka… the bunch,” Kuroo drawls, setting his head on Kenma’s shoulder. The two are sitting in front of the couch opposite from the one Bokuto’s currently occupying.

“Shoyo might get even more energetic with alcohol,” Kenma replies, not moving from his position. His cheeks are slightly flushed pink. “The rest of them, I’m not sure.”

“Tsukki would be a whiny drunk. Probably even worse sober!” Bokuto declares with a guffaw, flopping his arms to his sides.

“You’d have him beat, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi cuts in, with two years’ worth of experience dealing with Bokuto’s blubbering drunk side that sometimes comes out at a bar. He’s sitting on the carpet, glass of sparkling water currently on the table.

“Eh? Why?”

Before Akaashi gets to answer, Kai walks over to them, setting down glasses of water on the table. 

“Akaashi-kun, could you please make sure those two drink these?” the tanned man asks, nodding his head to the owl and cat duo. "Here, take this bottle of water too, in case they need more."

Akaashi gives his word of thanks to the gardener and holds the clear bottle close to him, protecting it from the two rowdy ones. 

He vividly remembers the last time they had such a big party (which involved no less than 5 people throwing up afterwards)—one you had almost marched in on, but a deadline was looming too close for comfort. Recently you only grumbled a bit about the commotion, but he could only imagine how frustrated you are at today's party.

"Alright! Kuroo! We’re doing more shots!" Bokuto's hand fumbles for the glass of water that Kai set down earlier.

"You’re on! I dedicate this one to my boss who still hasn’t promoted me yet, that shitty old man!" Kuroo reaches for his, drinking it with a strong fervor. "Smooth as ice, baby!" He slams it down onto the table again, causing it to shake violently.

"Want some more? You can dedicate them to more people." Akaashi holds up the water bottle. The two were probably too out of it to notice, he deduced.

"Oya, Akaashi! Gettin' a bit bold here, aren't we?" Kuroo raises his glass to him, grinning mischievously.

"Let’s go! We’ll take it on!" Bokuto cheers, slamming his fists down on the rickety wooden table, which is now on the edge of completely giving in from their strength. _Poor table,_ Akaashi muses as he pours the water into their glasses. _How it hasn’t gotten completely destroyed yet is a miracle._

With grand vigor and bravado, they gulp down their water. As Kuroo finishes, he does a mock-toast to Bokuto and flops backwards onto Kenma, who almost topples to the ground.

"Yeaaaah!" the man whoops, pumping his fists in the air. “New personal record!”

"You can call me King of Shots now! You hear that, Ken?" Kuroo pecks Kenma’s cheek, barely avoiding slamming into his face. The quiet man is now slowly nodding off to sleep, his response barely registered over the loud ambience of the party.

Akaashi sips on his sparkling water, which due to the heat, completely lost any of its delicate flavor on his tongue. Bokuto promptly announces the start of a dance-off and staggers up from his position on the couch, stumbling around to find the stereo to play his favorite song.

Out of nowhere, three sharp knocks on his door interrupts what he was doing.

"I'll get it!" Bokuto calls out in a sing-songy voice, rushing over to his doorstep. Akaashi's eyes follow him, wondering just who could it be—just _maybe,_ was it—

"Hey hey hey! You’re late! What took you so long—” Bokuto starts as he opens his front door, but immediately stops when he sees the person in front of him. "Wait. Who the hell are you?"

Eyebrow twitching upwards, Akaashi cranes his neck to get a better view of the unknown person, when—

“Neighbor next door! You guys are really damn loud and annoying, can you keep it down? Some of us have some work to do for the night!”

While Bokuto’s blocking the doorway, your voice is easily recognizable. Never one for politeness or formalities, either. Akaashi’s always appreciated that side of you, though sometimes it confused him.

(like today for example, when out of nowhere you called to ask him about a particular juice brand. he wasn’t even sure how to respond, because who calls somebody about _that_?)

“Woah there, no need to be so angry! Oh! I have an idea! Why dontcha spend some time partying with us? Pinky promise it’ll be fun!”

“Did you not hear what I said? I don’t have time to get wasted and invite strangers into my apartment like you, even if a can of beer does sound pretty appealing right now! So I’m asking for mine and this apartment’s sanity to keep it down, otherwise I’ll take this to the front office! The landlord here is pretty scary! Everybody here knows that! So with that, goodbye and goodnight!"

The distant sound of a door slamming shut acts as a finalizing note to the tirade.

Akaashi barely manages to hide his snort of laughter behind his hand. _Outrageous_ would also be another word he’d use to describe you, like a melting pot of every natural disaster possible, a walking time bomb that could explode at any minute. 

Bokuto turns around with a shocked, blank look on his face, now facing a good number of partygoers looking at him, the lively atmosphere dampered ever-so-slightly with your hurricane of a rant. "Did I do something wrong?" he asks, his eyes wide with a characteristic “Confused Bokuto" face.

Kuroo whistles in response. "You just got called out, Bo! Should probably keep it down for the neighbor, eh? You're this close to getting your ass kicked out of here anyways, with how untimely your rent payment is—"

"It's not! I just misplace it sometimes! I always pay the full amount!" Bokuto whines. "Well, if you all want to stay, go ahead! Just… keep it down some… if you can?" 

There's a couple nods of heads and choruses of affirmation. The party slowly resumes its lively pace.

Akaashi checks his phone, the screen reading 22:40 PM. While to the others this may seem like an early time to leave, he was in no mood to miss the last bus.

"I'll be taking my leave then. Kuroo-san, will you and Kenma be alright?" he stands up, looking at the pair slumped on top of each other. Kuroo gives a thumbs up, muttering about getting a taxi for later.

Akaashi waves goodbye to the people that were still not too out of it and walks to the door, slipping into his shoes.

"Akaashi! Headin' out already? Party's only getting started!" A cheery voice calls out. Akaashi turns exasperatedly to Bokuto, who now has Yamamoto, Atsumu, and Komi in tow for the dance-off (Fukunaga is again, just watching intently.)

"Bokuto-san, did you just forget about what your neighbor said?"

"Not a problem! I'll talk to her tomorrow… or something… I'll figure it out, no worries!" The cheery grin on his face indeed reveals no hint of worry. Then again, Bokuto’s not the type to have those now.

"Good luck with that then. I told you earlier I have my internship tomorrow morning, so I'm going now. Good night." Akaashi raises a hand in farewell, shutting the door softly behind him.

He’s welcomed by a gust of night air, a fresh departure from the stuffiness of the party. The faint sounds of synths linger in his ears, but it’s quickly replaced by the cars down below passing by. He looks over to the door on his right, wondering how you’re faring. Not to his surprise, the window curtain is drawn shut with not even a sliver of light peeking out, as if you’re broadcasting to the world nobody lived there. 

Without a glance back, Akaashi gets on the elevator and exits the complex, hoping you won’t be too angry later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so maybe starting off the story with these boys drunk maybe wasn't the best idea. honestly i had to rewrite this one sm bc the dialogue was Cringe (and it still lowkey is oops), drunk characterizations are hard man... chapters will definitely be longer later!
> 
> comment/kudos if you want! this'll be the last chapter update for the month, let me know if you're enjoying the story so far!


	3. reconciliation talks break down if both parties are stubborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Freedom_ and _expression_ were somehow the two very things you weren’t able to do once you entered university. 
> 
> You came to despise those two words.
> 
> //
> 
> “I want my neighbor to know how amazing I am!”
> 
> And if that was the reason, then he wouldn’t stop, not even if they were separated to the ends of the earth.

_Ow, my legs,_ is the first thing that registers in your mind when you wake up.

This morning you found yourself entangled with your blanket on the bed, your mind covered in a heavy blanket of fog. With robotic movements, you got up, ambled to the bathroom to splash some water on your face, wincing slightly at the soreness in your calves, and headed straight to the kitchen without another thought.

You let out a large yawn and rub your eyes, your mind still wandering through the thick mist. The kettle whistles some minutes later and you turn off the stove, pouring the steaming hot water into your mug with tea leaves scattered at the bottom. Beams of sunlight shining through the window illuminate the edge of your mug, dancing on the surface of the murky water as tiny sparkles. You savor the refreshing taste, which always served to be a well-needed wake-up call.

Then the portrait of Nakayoshi’s wife makes her presence known. Even stronger now.

You scurry outside the balcony to escape it, taking a couple of deep breaths of the Ueno autumn air as your arms rest on the railing. You shakily take a sip from your tea. Focus on the scenery, you repeat to yourself. So you become a simple observer to what’s laid out in front of you.

From here, the bustling Ueno district, composed of buildings of different shades of neutrals and blues, and the endless swarms of people going about their day is in full view. The sounds of birds chirping nearby and the rush of cars down below float to your ears. In the distance, the famous cherry blossom trees that line Ueno Park are visible. Right now, the pink and white blooms are shades of green, slowly morphing into brilliant flames of red and orange. Even further, you see the clear blue sky with white puffy clouds slowly moving by at the horizon line.

If there was one solace in your recent years, it was that you enjoyed Ueno’s view, even if you haven’t been out exploring much of it.

A slight gust of wind tousles with your bedhead, gently stirs your tea, then flies off into the distance, weaving through lines of laundry hung out to dry and the endless wires attached to utility poles. You continue drinking your tea, the drink’s subtle warmth spreading throughout your body, enveloping you in something you couldn't quite put into words.

Then your focus breaks.

"Hey! You come out here too? Haven't seen you before! I guess we just miss each other, huh?" A loud and bright voice calls out, shocking you like a sudden flash of lightning.

_Wait. What?_

A tall, muscular man (emphasis on muscular) wearing owl-printed pyjamas, with a head of streaked monotone hair slicked slightly back, is standing on the balcony next to you. Now that he’s the daylight, his facial features are quite apparent—thick, gray eyebrows, a defined jawline, a protruding nose, all creating sharp and strong angles that screamed _extroverted_ , screamed _socially adept_ , screamed everything you were not.

And those round, golden eyes, two suns burning in the daylight.

The fog in your mind finally lifts.

_Oh. Shit._

All of a sudden, the events from last night come flooding back to you. How you announced to him last night as your neighbor. How royally pissed off you were at him.

And despite your best efforts, you still didn’t finish the damn portrait, calling it a night early in hopes to forget about the mess of yesterday.

So now you had to finish that before your classes, then deliver the portrait to the studio.

Just thinking about it made you want to hurl.

Your neighbor takes your silence as an OK to continue. "I'm sorry about last night, and all the other nights before that too. I honestly didn't realize I had a neighbor next door. You’re pretty quiet! Can we just put that aside? Oh! My name's Bokuto Koutarou by the way, but you can just call me Bo!" 

He’s wearing that same grin that makes his eyebrows fly off his forehead.

It ticked you off.

_Why is he so nonchalant about this?_

What was he doing that could let him be so carefree about everything?

_Keiji mentioned him being a volleyball player before, didn’t he? Are all of them this worry-free about their lifestyles? Wow, must be nice for them! All they gotta do is just play a glorified catch game, huh?_

This was not to be done away with a casual introduction and an even shorter apology.

Your grip on the railing tightens.

"Listen here, Bokuto _-san_ , it’s basic human decency to not bother your neighbors. Not all of us have such high tolerance levels able to deal with whatever the hell you do each week, so don't just come out of nowhere and think your apology is enough! I’ve had to delay my work one too many times because of you guys!" More firecrackers _pop-pop-pop_ from your mouth. 

"Hold on, slow down a bit!” He holds his hands up in shock. “I really am sorry about all of that, but I always thought since your place was silent, you were always out! If it really did bother you, couldn’t you have said something before?" 

Those two suns are watching you, unwavering, prickling at the surface of your skin.

"So that gives you free rein to go absolutely wild in your apartment because I didn’t say anything?” you seethe. Your knuckles are turning white and every muscle in your body is tense. “I got deadlines, clients to please, people that are waiting for me. I don’t have the time to go out and about wherever and whenever I want."

At this point, you’re probably trying to half-convince yourself too.

He glances at you quizzically. "What do you do?"

_Why is he asking this?_

"Art,” you reply curtly.

"Do you like it?"

Your stomach plummets.

It's posed as an innocent question, but _something_ about the way his tone shifts, the way his eyes bore into you just a little more intensely, making you tense up, tells you he's on the hunt for something.

A something you’re in no way shape or form willing to give him.

"’Course. Why else would I study it?” You wanted to get away from this conversation as soon as you can. “Not like I’m trying to inflict some sort of self-punishment on myself, the gods have done more than enough of that."

The man tilts his head to the side, a look of genuine curiosity on his features. “Then why are you trying so hard to please other people? Isn't art about being free and expressing yourself?" 

_Wow. This just got even worse!_

_Freedom_ and _expression_ were somehow the two very things you weren’t able to do once you entered university. There was no freedom in managing profit, no expression in talking with clients.

There was neither with what people expected of you to do, and with what you held yourself to.

You came to despise those two words.

Your two eyes dip back down to the view sprawled out in front, unable to take the sweltering heat his suns hold. Even with your drink, your mouth is uncomfortably dry.

A pile of leaves scatter onto the sidewalk, dancing to the tune of the wind.

"This is a job to me. I give people what they want to see. All there is to it,” you reply, tone oddly flat. Before he has the chance to say something, you take your mug and stalk back inside, sliding the door behind you with a resounding thud.

You take a sip of tea again in hopes to warm yourself up, but after prolonged exposure to the chilly wind, it left only a disgusting taste in your mouth.

The last of the firecracker fizzles out, leaving nothing behind but tendrils of smoke dispersing into the air.

_What a joke._

* * *

As if on cue, your phone rings. 

Silence.

And rings.

Silence.

And rings.

Silence.

And rings.

“(Name), I hope you can visit us during break. I know you’re busy, and it’s not easy getting from Tokyo to up here, but Daisuke-san and I would like to see your face around here again. Call us back sometime, OK?”

* * *

It had been another normal day at his internship for Akaashi today, excluding the fact that he received 23 missed calls in the span of 4 hours.

Standing a bit away from the front doors of Shueisha, he pulls out his phone, pressing the ‘call’ button. In front of him, the midday crowd of salarymen and college students alike rush past him. A bus makes a stop and lets out a hiss as its doors open.

"Bokuto-san. You know I was at my internship, right? Can you please explain the 23 calls?" 

The voice on the other end is shakier than normal. "I know, I know! Can you just come over right now?" 

The time is 12:37. Much to Akaashi's dismay, he doesn't have anything else scheduled for later.

* * *

He rides the elevator to the seventh floor the third time in a row this weekend, wondering just what he did a past life to end up doing this.

Akaashi knocks on the door with the number seventy-four. Immediately, an almost teary-eyed spiker who hadn't bothered to change out of his pyjamas opened it.

(before that, he notices your window curtains are drawn tight yet again.)

"Akaashi, you're late!" Bokuto whines, a big pout forming on his face. 

_This might take a while_.

Adult Bokuto’s Mood Swings didn’t happen anymore in game, but that didn’t mean they went extinct out of game.

Which meant Akaashi, whether he liked it or not, still kept around the copy of Bokuto’s Moods: A Novel in his head. After years of editing and rewriting paths and choices, he’s got down the essentials to a ninety-nine percent accuracy (the other one percent are for situations that haven’t happened yet).

"You never specified a time for me to get here. So, what happened?" He steps inside and takes off his shoes, wanting to get this over with quickly.

Bokuto's apartment had certainly seen better days, but he was always late to cleanup after a party. The whole place was centimeters away from being labelled a disaster zone, from the empty glasses still strewn about on the table, the various stains on the carpet, and was that Kuroo's shirt on the kitchen counter? The permanent bedhead would drop by to pick it up sooner or later, Akaashi surmises, so he doesn’t touch it.

The spiker flops onto his couch, taking up all the space, hugging a pillow closely to his chest. Akaashi takes a seat on the carpet untouched by a stain.

“Nothing much, really,” Bokuto responds with a touch of childishness, his broad back turned away.

If Akaashi had to weasel out the answer from the Black Jackal ace, it usually meant he was feeling down in some way. Dark blue eyes scan his surroundings some more, landing on the four chairs on the balcony that the ex-Fukurodani third years sat on last night, now folded and put away. The TV in the corner is also turned on, playing some random noontime soap opera. An old one, from the looks of too, given that it’s in black and white.

He now has an inkling of the situation at hand.

 _Here we go._ He flips the novel to the appropriate page like the start of a choose-your-own-adventure.

“Why did you call me out here in the first place then?” Akaashi asks, a look of mild disdain apparent on his face.

“Am I not allowed to watch this TV show with you? I’m really enjoying it, and I thought you would too!” Bokuto exclaims. “Look, isn’t that your favorite actress? Hara Setsuko or something?” He points to the television but doesn’t look at it.

“Nobody’s on screen right now.”

Bokuto’s back muscles tense up. Akaashi takes this opportunity to press forward.

“You talked with your neighbor earlier, didn’t you?” he asks. “What happened?”

The spiker had a tendency to not tell things if not asked about it, as if fishing for the question. But once the right question was asked, the answer rushes out of Bokuto’s mouth like a river that had been building up behind a pair of floodgates.

“She first yelled at me for my parties, then told me she was always busy and trying to please people, then I asked her what she does, she said art, then I asked why she’s trying so hard for others, because isn’t art supposed to be free and all? But I guess it’s not, she told me it’s just a job and slammed her balcony door.” All in one breath. Bokuto turns on his back, staring at no place in particular on the ceiling, and tosses a pillow into the air.

_Way to go, touching one of the subjects you shouldn’t have._

Akaashi takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Wouldn’t Kuroo-san be more useful than me? What am I even supposed to do here?”

The ex-Nekoma and Fukurodani captains had been the ones to eventually win over a disgruntled blond volleyball player, after all. Akaashi only watched the scene unfolding right before him as nothing more than a spectator.

“Kuroo would definitely make things worse, the situation’s too sensitive for him right now.” He nods his head firmly; Bokuto had already thought through that possibility. “And I want my neighbor to know how amazing I am! But I don’t know how!”

The former part was certainly true—even if Kuroo was the Master of Provocation, he too couldn’t avoid all landmines.

The latter part?

_Of course it’d be that._

And if that was the reason, then he wouldn’t stop, not even if they were separated to the ends of the earth, because one of Bokuto’s weaknesses that still persisted to this day is being so fixated on one thing he forgets about everything else.

Akaashi again flips to the appropriate page to respond and puts his glasses back on.

“Then, you should learn to be less blunt and straightforward with your questions, not everybody responds well to them. Besides, she was mad at you because you threw a lot of parties, right? Did you even properly apologize to her about that?”

The pillow-tossing routine stops.

“I did!” he exclaims, a bit late.

“Was it one she would’ve accepted? From the sounds of it, she didn’t.”

Golden eyes turn quizzically towards Akaashi. “Do you know my neighbor or something?”

“I’ve told you before, we’re childhood friends.”

“Wait, you did?”

“Indeed. I’ve also told you she gets annoyed at you too. I know you like to throw your parties to relax, but sometimes it does get too out of hand to deal with. People like her are always busy at home and would appreciate some peace and quiet to work,” Akaashi concludes. “So it would be wise to hold less of those.”

A small _oh_ escapes from the spiker’s lips. 

It seemed like the salt-and-pepper haired man finally understood the situation at hand—though, Akaashi could wager Bokuto’s not entirely the one at fault here.

There’s a moment of silence that passes between the two before Bokuto speaks up again.

“Can you tell me some stuff about her?” He starts toying with the edge of the pillow.

“Well, we’ve been friends since she moved to Tokyo during the middle of elementary school up until the end of middle school, and then she moved away for high school.” A pause. “She then got accepted into a top university here. She’s pretty well-known in the art world, despite being in her fourth year of college. Her grandfather, Sasaki Hideo, was famous for his large landscapes,” Akaashi recites like clockwork, as if he was reading off a script for your introduction.

An eyebrow quirks up. “Who’s that?”

“He painted those waterfall paintings on display at the Haneda Airport.”

(you had pointed this out to him one time over the phone.

“Have you ever seen them?” he had asked.

“I haven’t been back home for four years, you tell me.”)

A lightbulb flashes above Bokuto’s head. “Ooh! I’ve seen those before! I think!”

“You think? They’d be pretty hard to miss. I’m guessing you just get too lost in the airport to notice,” he sighs. Truthfully, he also hasn’t seen them, as he doesn’t need to fly anywhere.

“Akaashi! You didn’t need to put it like that!”

“How else was I supposed to put it?”

Bokuto spreads his arms outwards, grandly declaring: “I like to call it: taking the scenic route!”

A beat later: “One more question. Does she like art?”

_“Depends on if this piece is actively trying to murder me or not.”_

_“Just about as much as I like myself.”_

_“Go ask your mother, I think she can give a better answer.”_

Asking if somebody liked what they were doing might’ve been a simple answer to Bokuto, but one that elicited a variety of responses to others.

And for you, it was probably one of the absolute worst questions somebody could ask.

“That’s something you should probably hear from her. I’m not in a position to answer on her behalf,” he decides to say, rising from his spot on the carpet. “If that’s all, I’ll be going now.” 

Before he can head to the door, an unnaturally loud grumble with the force of a volcano erupts out of nowhere.

“Wait, before you leave, can you help me cook lunch? My stove’s being weird,” the spiker says sheepishly, rubbing his stomach.

Akaashi had a nagging feeling it would come to this, but if he wanted Bokuto to be absolutely okay, this too was mandatory.

“Do you even have anything in your fridge?”

“Probably!”

Which usually means no. He goes over to the kitchen anyways and opens the fridge to check. Inside are a couple cans of beer scattered around, a package of udon noodles, some apples, and a box of leftovers. A jar of unidentifiable sauce is left forgotten in the very back. _Is it even usable?_

Akaashi rubs his temples in frustration—it seemed a trip to the grocery store was due today. He briefly wonders if you’ve eaten yet, hoping it was at least a meal of some sort, and not just convenience store-bought onigiri, but the thought quickly fades away. Bokuto’s fridge was a much more pressing and desolate matter.

“You’re a national athlete and you still don’t know how to cook?”

“You know I eat out most of the time!”

_This was the actual reason he called, probably._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ik i said i wouldnt post until september but ive been staring at this chapter for too much so here you all go, it was a bit difficult to wrangle out and i had to do a bunch of rewriting but i think it's turned out nicely (at least the middle-ish part). your grandfather is also based off of someone irl ([senju hiroshi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hiroshi_Senju)), which is why i decided to name him. i've also deleted the prologue and edited a tad bit at the beginning, in case you were wondering what's up with the chapter count.
> 
> leave a comment if you're frustrated and want to yell at how it turned out/on the off chance you enjoyed this! will be disappearing back into my pile of university work (looking at you math) that i may have been pushing off so ciao


	4. people who are up at 4 am are up to no good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Childhood friends_ , Akaashi had told Bokuto. Was it childhood friends, or was it just a person he’s known for a long time now? Or is there even a difference between the two?

Akaashi can’t sleep tonight, even though the clock on his dresser currently reads three AM.

Not because he has trouble falling asleep, but he’s waiting for a certain somebody to call him. He had already taken a four hour nap earlier in anticipation for this call. 

Usually when he receives these calls, it’s at random, spontaneous moments. They always happened to be anywhere from twelve to five in the morning, that Akaashi had figured out, but the date could never be guessed.

But today, he got a one-in-a-million chance to figure out the date. Given that you didn’t call him the night of the party, and how he had visited Bokuto today, who revealed he and you had a talk, of which you got angry at him as a result, the next step in the flowchart is that you’d end up calling him tonight. 

All of this, he figured out in half a second.

His ringtone goes off. Your name pops up on the screen. Without a second thought, he slides his thumb to answer.

“Hello?” 

“Yo, Keiji-kun. I’m thinking about becoming a nun,” you declare with an air of grandiosity, completely skipping over the formalities as usual.

For junior year, Akaashi managed to get a single-occupant dorm, which he’s grateful for. If he had a roommate, there would’ve definitely been one too many complaints thrown at him.

“I’ve known you long enough now to know that was definitely in jest,” he replies without missing a beat, adjusting his hold on the phone. “Are you alright?” Perhaps it was because of how late it was, but his tone is much more gentle.

And of course, you also flood his ears with a crashing of words.

"How do I start… so I talked to the person next door. Bokuto Kou...tarou, was it? He was being an ass and really nosy. I just don't get why the everloving fuck he doesn't understand having crazy ragers every week doesn't work with everybody. And then he tells me to just forget about it? What the hell? Obviously I couldn’t take that, so now I’m just back to an angry square one with nothing to do.” 

From the sounds of it, you’re at your desk, working on something or just furiously scribbling away.

“Maybe try talking to him again?” he offers, still a little out of it. Even with the nap, he can’t function as normally this early in the morning. “I know it might be hard right now, and the two of you certainly live in different worlds, but as things are progressing right now, some conclusion has to be reached.”

"Keiji-kun. I can't just waltz over to his place, introduce myself as the raging neighbor, apologize and make up with him like that. I mean, technically speaking I could, but that would be an admission of him being right, which I don’t really want to admit yet! Plus, if we're opposites, then we'd never be able to understand each other. Isn’t that common sense? Even if we mixed, we’d just turn out to be brown. That’s how complementary colors always end up."

All in one breath. He wants to say the two of you are more similar than you think, but he holds back. 

"I never said anything about apologizing,” he says instead.

With just that one line, the call practically freezes over, and if he strained his ears, he could hear the sound of ice forming.

Talking to you this late at night always felt like a sort of boxing match between two perfectly balanced opponents. You hit him with a barrage of words, and he returns them back with a strategized attack.

"OK, fine. Maybe I did go too far in our conversation,” you grudgingly admit (and Akaashi thanks whoever’s out there you did so quickly) after a lengthy pause. “We’ll just say that for conversation’s sake. But there’s a limit as to just how loud a person can get, right?”

“Of course. I believe he’s gone overboard too, but his way of unwinding from volleyball means doing something completely unrelated, and I know you like to curl up inside your apartment.” He brings in his knees to rest his elbow on top. Today’s call was turning out to be on the longer side. “There’s bound to be some conflict, and I can’t think of a way to resolve it without talking to him about it.”

“Some conflict, huh,” you echo sardonically. “How are you even friends with him in the first place?”

“It’s a long story. But he’s not a bad person at heart—actually, his heart is probably too big at times, and he’s one of the most inspiring people I’ve met.” The corners of his mouth tug upwards ever so slightly.

 _You are too,_ is on the tip of his tongue, but it doesn’t come out in time.

“Kinda hard to see that,” you mutter.

“Besides, you seem more worked up than usual about this,” Akaashi continues. “Are you sure you're doing alright?"

"Like I said. Perfectly fine.” You reply a bit too quickly. “That talk with him was just the last straw. Why are you asking?"

“Your window curtains were pulled tight again,” he states, as if it was the most obvious explanation in the world.

“What does that have to do with anything? Actually, how did you notice my window curtains?”

“You have that habit when you want to be alone and shut yourself in your apartment. And you usually talk about Bokuto for less than five sentences. I counted over ten today." Those were just ballpark estimates, but he wagers they had at least a 70% accuracy rate.

“What kind of monster are you—”

“I’m not a monster, just observant of these things. I’m going to take another guess and say he asked whether you liked art or not?” He pushes forward tentatively some more.

“Are you psychic? Did you get involved in some freak supernatural incident when you were a kid that you never told me about?” which sounded like a genuine question for him. “And answer my question about the curtains already!”

“That one was actually unfair on my part, since I visited Bokuto-san earlier today (he meant yesterday, but today, yesterday—did it make a difference?) That’s how I know about the window curtains."

The line crackles for a bit, and he hears you sigh again. “Alright. You got me. Happy?”

"This is just a regular occurrence for me. That aside, he hit a nerve with that question, right?”

"Yeah, I guess. Recently it’s been a little..." your voice trails off, losing its edge. In the background, a pen drops.

"Sorry. Not gonna do an emotional dump on you today. Kinda drained now,” and he hears it too, in the way your voice lacked the barreling, intense energy it held just a couple minutes ago. “In the first place, why are you being talkative tonight? It’s hard to do the whole vent thing when you’re talkative.”

Unlike Bokuto, you always kept a part of yourself hidden away, a part that Akaashi could never see, like how one never sees the entirety of the moon. You might’ve unsuccessfully deflected his first question, but you always dodged the important ones.

 _Childhood friends_ , Akaashi had told Bokuto. Was it childhood friends, or was it just a person he’s known for a long time now? Or is there even a difference between the two?

“I figured you might call me tonight, so I got some sleep beforehand.” There’s no point in pushing you further, so he decides to step away.

“You really are a monster.”

“Not as much as you are. Your neighbor was quite scared of you today.”

“Really now? Oh, then should I try using scare tactics to get him to stop—”

He cuts in before you could reveal some dark, twisted plan. “Please don’t cause any more complications than necessary. I would prefer if you weren’t too hostile to him either.”

“Who’s side are you on, exactly?” you ask with an exasperated tone. 

“Neither. I’m just the mediator." And he's not even sure how it happened, but he's accepted this role a long time ago. 

“I can understand your frustrations, don’t get me wrong,” he goes on, stifling a yawn. How long had it bee since he picked up your call? “As someone who’s spent the past 5 years with him, I understand he really is troublesome, simple-minded, and completely unfiltered. One time he got suspended for knocking off the wig of our principal—”

“What in the—”

“Long story again. Despite everything he does however, he means well. I’m sure he didn’t mean much by his question, and I have a feeling you aren’t blameless in this situation too. I’m not going to force you to do anything, but please try not to be too rude to him as he is a good friend of mine,” he concludes, and he’s starting to understand why you always talked a lot during this time. Or maybe he was finally cracking.

“Fine, fine,” is your answer, albeit a bit dismissively. “I’ll see what I can do about it.”

A bit later: “You’ve always been like this anyways,” is mumbled.

(would it be better if he could’ve said something more comforting?)

The boxing match ends, but he’s honestly not sure who really won.

After a brief lapse, he decides to switch the conversation topic. "My parents gave the OK for you to stay over for the holidays,” he says, switching the phone to his other ear.

"No, I can’t do that again. Have my own place here and all now. You should spend time alone with your family, do the whole familial obligations thing without me intruding all the time." 

"They're always looking forward to you coming over, you know. I'm sure they’d love to hear what's been going on with you."

"Same applies to you. You know, since you’re the actual son.”

"But they've already considered you a part of the family long ago, so you'd be breaking familial obligations if you don't come," he points out.

This was an honest truth, despite his personal feelings towards pulling this card.

A tapping noise from your pen fills the silence.

“Y’know, you kinda suck when you’re talkative,” you finally say, tapping stopped.

“Think of it as payback for all the times you’ve called me during this time.”

“But you’re never angry at me about it. Alright, I shouldn’t keep you up for any longer. I’ll think about the offer. Good night, Keiji-kun.”

He doesn’t even have a chance to say goodnight before you hang up—you always started and ended the calls on your whim. A small sigh escapes his lips as he settles back into his blanket, phone now on the dresser.

Because you were right, Akaashi could never get angry at you for calling him, no matter what the time was. Perhaps slightly exasperated at times, but never angry, not at you.

He falls asleep without another thought.

* * *

_He probably didn’t mean too much by his question._

In truth, Akaashi’s words held a grain of truth, despite your initial resistance.

So you might’ve held just a _tiny_ drop of regret for what happened on that balcony.

It really wasn’t your neighbor’s fault that Nakayoshi’s wife (now shipped and out of sight, but you swear you can still feel her phantom presence linger) wasn’t finished, your shred of rationality once again argues. You needed an actual proper meal and a good night’s rest.

But unfortunately, that side held hardly any influence in you, because in the end, that man’s loudness was still one of the main reasons why you couldn’t work.

Right?

The tip of your pen pushes hard onto the page, leaving behind a large colored blot, but before you can draw a line, a sharp, loud knock at the door rings out, disturbing the silence.

You freeze up.

First of all, who knocks so loudly at almost five in the morning? That should be a crime in and of itself. Second of all, who knocks at almost five in the morning?

It must be the mafia coming to take you, you decide. Or perhaps the government has finally clocked you as a potential threat.

To your dismay, it was neither.

An unexpected (annoying) voice calls out, muffled by the door. "Hey hey hey! It’s your neighbor! Are you awake? Sorry for scaring you! But I see that your light is on, so I’m guessing you’re still awake. Oh wait, but you could’ve fallen asleep at your desk and forgot to turn off the lamp… shit, maybe I should’ve thought this through more—”

“I’m very much awake,” you reply with a sigh, opening the door just enough to see who it was.

Indeed, it was Bokuto Koutarou, wearing the same set of owl-print pyjamas that he sported yesterday (was it yesterday already?), gray hair still up.

_Does that naturally stick up?_

“Good morning! Or should I say good night? But I guess I’d say that if you were going to sleep… oh right! I just had a crazy genius dream w en I was sleeping, so I just had to come over! To apologize for what happened yesterday, and all the times before that”—he sweeps into a deep bow—”I formally ask for your hand to accompany me to yakiniku later this evening! I can pay!”

A small part of you understands now why Akaashi’s not talkative when you call him early in the morning.

You don’t even have the capability to react to this.

“Not interested.”

"How 'bout tomorrow then? Oh! If you want ramen instead I know a shop that does half off during lunch!" 

_Please try not to be too rude to him._

Akaashi’s words are still fresh on your mind, but you really were busy. Besides, you’re not entirely on board making up with your neighbor at whatever questionable time it was currently.

"Also busy."

"Then… next Tuesday! Let's go to that new karaoke place!" 

"Busy."

"Thursday, then? Amusement park. Everybody likes those!"

"Not a fan."

And with the place suggestions he was throwing out, there was no way the whole making up thing would be happening anytime soon.

"Aw, come on! Oh wait, you're an art student right? Friday’s gotta be good. Ueno has a lot of museums, right? Let’s go to one!" His eyes sparkle.

This makes you almost consider his offer for a beat.

"I promise it'll be fun!" 

_Almost._

"No. Got a client to meet up with."

"Then, is there anything you want to do?" he pouts, slightly hunching over. 

"Not really. Sorry. Bye."

A thud, then a click as you shut and lock the apartment door behind you.

* * *

But Bokuto stays outside your front door for five minutes longer.

A brief look flashed by on your face for just a second, something most people couldn’t catch. It was a mixture of many things, and Bokuto doesn’t know the right word to sum it up.

What he knows, however, is that he doesn’t like it.

He goes back inside his apartment and watches the sun complete its ascendancy from his balcony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing... hard. alas, we're still in the thick of exposition for a couple more chapters. on the bright side, i have a lot backlogged so it wont be a long wait :)
> 
> hope you enjoyed this and thanks for reading! sorry its kinda a drag rn. stay safe out there!


	5. remember the complementary colors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You had wondered before, what the line between passion and work was. Somewhere down the line, you wondered whether there was a line in the first place. Somewhere down the line, you wondered what the point of it all was. And now, you stopped wondering about it altogether.
> 
> Because somewhere down the line, it really just became a job to you.

Once you pursue art professionally, it ends up taking hold of your entire life whether you liked it or not. 

From how much time it ate up, to it dictating the places you went to, to what you posted on social media, you inhaled fumes of oil paint and exhaled long sighs of resignation. Shadows on the ground weren’t just grays, but dark blues or purples and had orange edges under certain lighting conditions. People’s faces and bodies became an arrangement of different shapes (which was probably why you couldn’t remember names), each a different structure.

If somebody asked you what you did besides art, you couldn’t come up with an answer. A professional artist isn’t just about painting 24/7—it involves (in your case) university work, updating social media and your website, submitting to competitions, attracting clients and galleries, and then painting. And sketching. Sometimes shopping for supplies.

Being a traditional artist means doing a lot of these things alone. There was no group of people coming up with an idea, like a team of animators, a film crew, or graphic designers. Even manga artists had their assistants and editors to talk to, despite their public image of being a complete recluse.

Maybe if you did go down one of those routes, you’d be less of a hermit, or there would’ve been more opportunities to make money, but it was the brush you picked up first and the brush you stuck with.

Thanks to how freelancing works, your workload ebbs and flows. A couple of steady patrons, coupled with getting top spots (though never winning) in local competitions, you could pay the bills and tuition _mostly_ on time just through art.

These weeks, you were in a major flow.

“Yes, I’ll be able to ship it out by Friday. Can I have your address again to double check?”

“Ok, thank you for the information! I’ll send my submission soon.”

“Do you still have that pigment available? That’s fine! I’ll call you back then.”

“Next Thursday sounds good! Yes, I can bring in a few works as well.” 

Between commissions, workshop demonstrations, and your school’s midyear festival that was fast approaching, there was too much to do.

* * *

Commissioned work is solely for making a living. While your art style isn't considered abstract, it still wasn't well-known enough for all your clients wanting a commission in your style. Most of them wanted something realistic, grounded, to hang up on the wall as a nice little decoration, subtly flaunting their wealth, and never approached you again.

You learned how to be pleasant and accommodating to these people, weaving through the circles of Tokyo’s elite like a performer in ancient Greek theater wearing a mask, transforming into a completely different persona (being an eccentric mess usually didn’t go so well during negotiations).

Yamada is one of those rare gems of a client that regularly requested commissions and didn’t pull any strings. As the head of an interior design firm, she was always in need of works for her projects. She happened upon your website one day, in need of somebody to do a large painting for a newly-refurbished lobby, thought your work suited the lobby’s aesthetic, and from there your professional relationship with her blossomed.

“This looks lovely, thank you so much again! As always, I’ll be sure to let you know if I need another painting done!” Yamada, a woman in her forties dressed in a velvet black dress smiles warmly at you, carefully holding her new painting. Her nose, a long, protruding line down her face, and her mouth, a deep-red color, is usually drawn straight across tightly, giving an air of unapproachability. But once she smiled, it was a beautiful, rare flower in bloom, which made it all the more reassuring to her clients after sealing a deal.

To you, Yamada showed a much more relaxed face, probably because you’re always in her living room when you see her. Handcrafted wooden sculptures sit on top of a long glass coffee table. A pair of sleek gray sofas covered with sea-blue and gold throw pillows surround it, creating an L-formation. On the polished wooden floor lays a thick Persian rug. A flatscreen TV hangs on the off-white wall, currently displaying a crackling fireplace (which you always found pointless, as a video never provided physical warmth). In the far corner sits a potted tree, showing signs of care with its verdant leaves gracefully drooping down. Lingering in the air is a light, natural fragrance that barely announces its presence. A large glass door revealed her veranda, covered with more potted plants (middle-aged women and gardening go hand-in-hand) and a picturesque view of Tokyo, the kind you'd see in postcards. Not a speck of dust is present; everything sparkled pristinely in the sunlight.

The place looked straight out of a Vogue Living magazine cover—the perfect, unblemished _home_ with nothing out of place _._ With your faded and paint-splattered shirt and ripped jeans, you stuck out like a sore thumb in its elegance, but you’re quite used to the sensation already. Whenever you were here you never wanted to take a seat, as if the whole feng shui of the home would be disrupted, ripped apart to shreds if you touched even an edge of the table.

“It was my pleasure, Yamada-san. I am glad you like this one as well,” you return the smile, not so warm.

“Oh, how could I not like your paintings, dear? Many of my clients have inquired about them, so if you have a sudden influx of commissions, a certain somebody says sorry,” she winks, setting the painting down on the glass table. The jazz playing from a speaker has just changed over to a reflective but quick-tempoed piano piece—Beethoven, most likely, as he was one of Yamada’s favorite composers. Classics, she had said once, were popular for a good reason.

“I’m always appreciative of more business, please don’t worry. Helps pay everything and some more."

Yamada tended to go off on tangents a lot, so you tried driving your point with more subtle ways to leave quicker.

She giggles softly, covering her lips with her hand. “Well, that means you'll want this then! And I’ll be sure to be in attendance at the midyear exhibition. I wouldn’t dare miss my favorite little painter!” She hands you a brown envelope from her dress pocket. 

Her smooth, slender fingers sported a couple of custom-crafted rings with all sorts of tiny colorful stones embedded in them and her nails are painted in a sheen of dulled gold.

Your fingers, unsurprisingly, are smudged with bits of paint. You hoped she didn’t notice.

“I’ll be sure to not disappoint. Thank you again, Yamada-san," you take the envelope, bowing slightly, and exit the luxury apartment.

Smaller paintings you liked to deliver personally, to save your clients the trouble and to establish a face-to-face connection. 

Although, once you stepped outside, if you hadn’t felt out of place already in a client’s home, you’d feel even more so in the luxury neighborhoods of Tokyo. Right across the street from you is an LV store, the neon sign glaring at you in all it’s upturned classiness, as if it was judging you for even glimpsing at it.

(fuck you too, LV.)

 _I’m rarely in Azabu, so I guess I’ll just stroll around before heading back._ The combination of high-class luxury juxtaposed with quaint cafes the district offered is second-to-none and provided a great sketching opportunity, coupled with the interesting fashions people sported walking by. You pull out your sketchbook, eyes scanning your surroundings for potential compositions.

* * *

There are three pluses to attending the Tokyo University of the Arts, also known as Geidai.

One is that since it’s a public school, tuition was manageable. In freshman year, you had to juggle a couple of part-time jobs to pay it off, along with some help from your family, but as you gained popularity, the number of jobs you took on decreased in number until at the end of junior year, you could fully support yourself just through art alone.

Second is that the classes were solely dedicated to art. Long gone were the days of grueling academics and crying over midterms, now you were agonizing over art, which at least you didn’t fail at (although no matter where one went, the dreaded research papers could never be escaped).

And third was that you could finally meet a community of artists. There was a sense of belonging at the university that you didn’t have before, since everybody was cultivating their body of work, dedicating themselves to their craft.

However, there are a couple reasons why you’re not it’s biggest fan.

“Have you given any thought to your graduating show yet? The form’s due by mid-March at the latest, I hope you keep that in mind.” Professor Kimura’s steely gaze is staring right through you behind a pair of thick frames, his knobby hands clasped tightly together with his elbows on the wooden desk.

_It’s only September! Why are you on my ass for this?_

People here liked to get things done and done quickly. To be early is to be on time, to be on time is to be late. You understood this concept, but it got annoying sometimes.

“I’m still not sure yet. My apologies, Kimura-sensei,” you reply, head slightly bowed.

“You are still hesitating, even with the body of work you’ve already produced?” His gaze continues to pierce you, and you wonder if he had been some sort of mafia boss in his previous life. “That would be more than sufficient.”

“I know, but I’m not entirely sure if I’d be satisfied with it.” 

Which is partially true. You’re not sure if you wanted to end your Geidai years with a portfolio you don’t feel entirely connected with.

At the same time, you don’t know what else to show.

A long pause hangs in the office, and only the ticking of the grandfather clock can be heard.

Kimura’s eyes soften imperceptibly. Or maybe he was just tired, the freshmen this year were known to be particularly energetic. “Just be sure to turn in the form on time. I’m here if you need any assistance,” he finally says, acting as your note of dismissal.

“Thank you very much!”

* * *

Some days you dedicated completely to revising paintings. The main reason why this step is done is to take in the critiques of others and improve on the work.

The other is because you didn’t want to start something new.

The latest that you’re revising is a study of different whites, depicting a fully white-clothed figure in a white room wearing a white hat, holding a metallic vase with smoke coming from it. A variety of brush strokes captured different edges—hard ones for the walls, soft ones for the wisps of smoke—and different paint thicknesses for detail. The bits of red and flesh tones on the figure broke up the monochrome palette. It’s the largest piece currently in your apartment, standing a couple heads below you.

To the critics, this could’ve been a commentary on minimalism, sexuality, societal expectations, maybe even politics. Or a mix of it all.

To you, it was just a bunch of whites slapped on a canvas.

Many praised your style as an “intricate dance between the classic Nihonga style and Western techniques” with “a subtlety that manages to make itself known”. Others dismissed it as “a pale imitation of Sasaki Hideo with no regard to the nuances of human emotion” and “lacking any sort of true vibrancy and emotional depth.”

One time when you were showering, you had eloquently thought of it as: “Mariya Takeuchi singing Plastic Love without it actually feeling like plastic love.”

If you were being dead honest, you leaned towards the latter side of opinions (without the pretentious vocabulary). Even though everything in art is subjective, they technically weren’t wrong; your grandfather had been the core inspiration for your body of work. You could barely keep afloat with everything that was demanded at you—keeping his legacy alive, making sure your art could be sold, getting your name out there in the world.

You had told your neighbor art was just a job. You had wondered before, what the line between passion and work was. Somewhere down the line, you wondered whether there was a line in the first place. Somewhere down the line, you wondered what the point of it all was. And now, you stopped wondering about it altogether.

Because somewhere down the line, it really just became a job to you. It wasn’t passion that drove you to pick up a brush anymore—if anything, it was tiring. Each stroke you painted apprehensive and drawn-out, a turtle’s pace. 

And maybe to somebody this was a tragic story about the loss of passion. Passion, passion. But all fires eventually burn out in the end, no matter how bright or large they were, leaving behind a pile of smoldering embers.

For better or for worse, you stayed with those embers, because you didn't know what else to do.

All of this, however, you’d never dare say out loud. Nobody wanted to listen to the struggles of an artist, they just wanted to see the work. They wanted to know the process, they wanted to know the meaning, they wanted to hear a pretty story about the layers of paint, and they were more than content with the bullshit you fed them.

Nobody bothered to probe deeper.

And you preferred it that way, because there wasn’t anything deeper to begin with.

With a small filbert dipped in a warm gray, you add a streak to the wall behind the figure and take a step back, swirling the brush in the muddy cup of water in your hand.

Finishing a piece is never determined beforehand, it always happens in the moment. You also didn’t want to look at this one for a good while anymore.

A tepid breeze comes in from the open balcony door, temporarily masking the heavy scent of oil paint and linseed oil. The sun’s still high in the sky, its light shining through the glass of your balcony door.

You crack your knuckles and scan the row of almost-finished paintings leaning against your coffee table, trying to figure out which one would be the easiest to tackle next.

* * *

“Our special guest today is Sasaki (Name)-san. An upcoming graduate at Tokyo University of the Arts, who has graciously agreed to give a demonstration today. Well then, the studio is all yours,” the owner of the studio, a small building tucked away in a corner of Shinjuku, an older man with white hair tied in a low ponytail, bows to you. 

Your relationship with this man was born through your grandfather. One thing led to another, and you had agreed to take part in his project of bringing in "qualified student artists in hopes of inspiring others to pick up on the world of creation." He was a pretty engaging man during the off-hours and didn’t harp on your grandfather as much as other people did, so you agreed to the proposal.

(and _maybe_ because he promised you good pay for it.)

“The pleasure is all mine, Nanase-san. I thank you all deeply for attending today.” You briefly scan the faces, a range of young kids to elderly people, noting most of them had an eagerly curious expression.

Live workshop demonstrations always had you on edge. 

Frankly, you didn’t know what you were doing, so how were you supposed to explain that to people wanting to know what you were doing for three hours straight? You had to carefully balance insight with humor unless you wanted to end up with a sleepy audience. 

Somehow, you make do.

It's an art, after all.

“Today I’ll be talking about color, using this still life setup here. I believe color plays a very important role in drawing in your audience and influences the mood of a piece heavily. Also, please don’t hesitate to ask questions during this demonstration.”

Directly in front of you is a small canvas on a wooden easel. Beyond that is the still life, a simple one of a red and green apple set up on a gray box with two sides missing, lit up by a studio light. On the walls of the studio are various paintings and drawings of a variety of sizes and mediums. Nanase’s studio was small in size, but well-known amongst the community, so he could keep operations going without a hitch.

You start by laying down a thin layer of green and red blobs. “As you can see here, these two apples are complementary colors. Green and red are probably the most used pair, since they’re easily found in nature. There are some artists I know who start their paintings with certain color schemes in mind, often focusing on one type of complementary pair. Of course, this isn’t necessary, but it can certainly help if you have trouble deciding on what colors to use.”

A couple of large, neutral brushstrokes define the foreground and background areas. "Now that I’ve got down the rough outline of this setup, I’ll start to work on adding value and depth into this piece.” Using your palette knife, you mix a bit of red into the green paint. “Shadows aren’t created by adding black to your main color. Instead, use the opposite color to make the shadow color, so it makes your painting more realistic.”

You use a smaller brush to paint in the shadows. “Depending on your lighting situation, this shadow may be warmer or cooler, so feel free to experiment.”

“Excuse me, Sasaki-sensei! Wouldn’t mixing opposite colors together just give you brown?” A little kid pipes up, raising his short, chubby fingers.

“Yes, but even brown has it’s different hues,” you explain, continuing to paint. “Depending on how much of one color you use, you can create a reddish brown or a greenish brown. It might not look very different, but such small things can make a big difference on the finished work.”

“I see! Thank you!” he says enthusiastically, though you’re not entirely sure if he really did get it.

_You got this, kid. Sorry you had to be stuck with me._

“Now, here’s where it gets fun.” You swirl the brush in the cup of water and wipe it off with a paper towel. “My professors often told me to squint at what we saw to get the other colors of the object. Usually we made up a bunch of colors that looked like they belonged, but sometimes you can really see the different colors.” 

Honestly, it sounded like a bunch of bullshit, but having an air of professionalism makes any bullshit believable.

You mix a light cadmium yellow and apply it as a highlight using your palette knife for a thicker consistency of paint. “See how I’m not using a light green here? You might look at that apple’s highlights and think it’s light green, but there’s much more depth added if you use a different color. Don’t be afraid to exaggerate things, as this exaggeration is normally how an artist can make their personal mark on observational work.”

A couple murmurs of affirmations reach your ears. _Good, they bought into it._

“The thing with complementary colors is that they create a very sharp contrast to the audience. Sometimes, this might be exactly what you want in a piece, but normally artists try to break up this juxtaposition. I’ll be adding some light blues to the back of the green apple and a bit of purple to the shadow of the red apple for this piece.”

After some more spewing of technical explanations, you stand back to observe the piece as a whole.

“Now, the final thing is to work on the background. Usually, most backgrounds, even if they’re simply gray like this one, can be accentuated with some sort of color to make it less plain. I’ll be adding some yellows and oranges as they’re right between green and red on the color wheel.”

You use a flat brush, hastily applying a layer of paint on the wall. “I sometimes like to use a more expressive mark for the background, since not much else is happening there.” 

In truth, you just wanted to get this over with.

“And… this is now completed!” You set your brush down in the jar of water for the final time, inwardly letting out a huge sigh of relief. “If you have any questions, feel free to ask away—” you catch yourself in time to not say “otherwise, scram”—”Once again, I thank you all for attending my demonstration.”

You hope there aren’t any.

* * *

It's late at night on Friday when you finally arrive at your apartment after a day of prep for the university festival tomorrow. Hammering in nails, adjusting the nails by millimeters just to make sure the piece wasn’t hanging crooked, and then helping out some of your friends with their installations took out a lot of your energy. Seniors got the most space to use too, so you hung up your largest work to fill the space, which meant a lot of climbing up and down ladders. Tomorrow, you still have to hang up the final piece.

Not in the mood for anything filling right now, you grab your laptop, a can of Sapporo beer from the fridge, and head out onto your balcony. A cool but relaxing gust of wind blows on your face. It was the kind of autumn night that most people would’ve stayed in their homes for, which served as the perfect one for you to go outside. You press play on a random playlist, turning up the volume slightly as the first few notes of a song playing out, a gentle lullaby for the night.

The metal tab of the can hisses as you crack it open and you take a large gulp of it. Chilled alcohol washes down your throat, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste on your tongue. You lean back against the railing and observe the sky, the sun’s last rays only a small streak of red at the horizon line in the dark expanse up above.

In the distance, twinkly dimly, you spot the north star alone in the sky.

(at least, you think it is.)

Your eyelids flutter shut and your light jacket doesn’t protect you much from the cold, but you decide to stay out for just a bit longer, savoring the final moments of the daylight.

Around an hour later, the can’s emptied and the playlist ends. You close the lid of your laptop, crush the can in your hand, head back inside, and for once, fall soundly asleep on your bed before midnight.

You realize quite a bit later that your neighbor’s place was quiet for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its break time so yall get an update on this today! as this bitch doesnt know how to write a wholeass light novel so youre stuck with a solo chapter, apologies if it was boring but i think its necessary to show exactly who you are so *finger guns* deal with it. also yes you do have a last name in this sorry if that throws you off, its kinda important for later.
> 
> speaking of playlists: i've made one for this work [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2W04ek2LQW45Z5BhLa198F?si=5rNn0H2LSiKknbPpOup0cw) which isn't complete yet but has most of the vibes of this story down, go check it out if you want (earbud users be careful with the first song)!
> 
> thanks for reading if you made it here, comment/kudos provide me with something of interest and a way to procrastinate! see yall next time <3 i promise there'll be human interaction with characters that aren't just oc's!


	6. don't get lost from your buddy in a large crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good luck with that.”
> 
> He’s mentally berating himself for not saying anything more.
> 
> //
> 
> Everybody around you, it seemed, was doing something new, while you still stubbornly clung to a figment of the past, holding onto it for dear life.

After going to Nationals, Akaashi’s life didn’t have much going for it.

Each day, he wakes up and fixes a simple breakfast of miso soup and eggs, sometimes with the occasional slices of fruit. He then goes to university, takes his classes, eats lunch, attends the rest of his classes, and heads straight back to his apartment to work on homework or study for exams. When he had free time, he’d attend Bokuto’s volleyball matches. During weekends he goes to his internship. He never missed your gallery shows.

It was like he was just going through the motions of living. His same routine clung to him like a gum wrapper on the sole of a shoe; it lingered in the socks he hung up to dry, the strap handle on the bus he grabs on each day, in between the pages of his textbooks, on the fingerprints on his apartment’s door knob.

He’s not entirely sure if he liked it this way, but then again, he doesn’t know how to change it either.

"Good morning," Akaashi announces to the editing office as he steps out of the elevator.

To say the Shueisha office was a mess severely underscored the state of the office; it looked like a hurricane and a tornado had swept through and nobody ever bothered cleaning it up. Everybody’s desk had stacks of books, manga, and papers on it, under it, and next to it. Boxes filled with rough drafts and old sketches reached the ceiling, some balanced precariously on top of each other, somehow never falling. The cabinets lining the side walls also had piles of magazines and filing folders thrown on top of it. In the air is the mixed scents of coffee, ramen and fresh ink.

In it’s strangely odd way however, it felt like a home. A really disorganized one, and not exactly Akaashi’s home, but a home nonetheless.

"Good morning, Akaashi-kun! Up here bright and early as always!" the head editor, Kosegawa, a middle-aged man greets him, looking up from his desk. ”Tomokazu-kun and Ichinose are holding a meeting for the new manga artist award in an hour, and they said you can sit in on it. I’ve placed the manuscripts on your desk already.”

“Understood, thank you.”

Akaashi’s internship at Shueisha was his fifth since entering college. After shocking just about everybody he knew by deciding not to continue volleyball in college, not even collegiate, he’s not sure where to go from here. At least when he played volleyball there was the goal of winning Nationals to work towards, but now?

Everything seemed too vague and uncertain to him, as if he was on a train with no destination.

He walks to his desk in the back, which is the least cluttered in the office. Sure enough, a manila folder is placed on it, right in front of the desktop. Akaashi sits down, adjusts his glasses, and starts reading the first manuscript in the stack, absorbing each story like a sponge. 

Honestly, they all kind of sucked, but that was to be expected. 

Some he couldn’t even finish reading, but some got him mildly interested. The ones in his folder were only a small portion of the entries, most likely already somewhat whittled down. The process to decide usually took a long while due to the sheer amount of work submitted, and the deadline hasn’t even approached yet.

The winner, after all, could get their work serialized in a magazine of the company’s choice.

An hour flies by, and he takes the elevator to the fifth floor where meetings are held. Tomokazu and Ichinose are already seated in front of each other at a black couch in the center of the room, with a pile of manuscripts scattered all over the low coffee table. The two are hunched over in their seats and deep in conversation.

“Pardon my intrusion,” he announces softly to the two.

Tomokazu gives Akaashi a little wave as he momentarily looks up from the sheaf of papers in hand, while the other remains nose-deep in reading.

“Good morning Akaashi-kun! Would you mind making us some coffee?” he asks with a refreshing smile.

Tomokazu is one of the younger editors at Shueisha, but his reputation for being able to spot good writers is uncannily good and many thought he had a sixth sense for picking out the diamonds in the rough. Like a true editor, he had a silver tongue that made manga artists fear for him, not because of how stern he was, but because of how much he could pressure them. His narrow eyes, uncombed hair, and smirk often reminded him of a certain money-hungry pain-in-the-ass man.

“Understood, I’ll get right on it,” Akaashi replies.

Akaashi’s job usually consisted of these menial duties, though sometimes he got to read over rough drafts of scripts and mangas and sit in on meetings between an editor and their manga artist. He stands next to the coffee pot on the counter in the back, waiting for the pot to brew and catches snippets of the conversation.

“...I think the art style is just too plain for a story like this, it’s not pleasing to the eye either…”

“...this one overall is quite unpolished, though it’s not a terrible start…”

“...Hayato-san mentioned he thought this one had potential…”

“...did you actually read through that one? I’m impressed, the characters were too exaggerated for me…”

With two steaming cups of coffee in hand, he walks over to where his senior editors are sitting. “Here you go,” he says, setting down the coffee cups on the table.

“Oh, much appreciated.” Tomokazu takes a quick swig of the dark liquid. “Say, what do you think of this one?” He holds up a manuscript for Akaashi to look at. 

Akaashi takes it in his hands. The title read “The Town of the Cats”—it was one he didn’t entirely dislike, but didn’t find particularly appealing either.

“I think the author had an interesting story to tell, but I feel like it’s poorly executed through unnecessary exposition and dialogue. If that was cut out, then I believe the story would shine through much better. A better artist would elevate the work as a whole too. Though, sales-wise, I’m not too sure how this would do in the market. I personally didn’t mind how this went, but to the general audience, it might be a little dull,” he answers without hesitation. 

Tomokazu nods his head, merely humming in response.

“Asking him that would get us nowhere. What do you think has the most potential out of the ones you’ve read so far?” Ichinose’s gravelly voice cuts in, his eyes still trained on the papers in his hands.

Ichinose, on the other hand, is one of the oldest. A head of graying hair and slouched posture made him look physically weak, but his dark eyes behind a pair of wiry frames revealed another story—they studied you with the utmost intensity and focus, demanding your full attention. He too, wasn’t a stern man, but that look of his said he demanded the most from his artists, and anything subpar wouldn’t be taken.

“To be completely honest, I didn’t find any of the ones I read to be particularly grabbing,” Akaashi replies, pushing up his glasses.

“Hmm. I see.” A pause. “We were thinking of having you be the editor for the winner’s manga,” Ichinose announces casually, as if the job was just another one of Akaashi’s daily duties.

The intern’s eyes briefly widened. “Er—I’m honored to hear that, but why me? I don’t have much experience.”

“You do lack in experience, but you’re not completely flailing around like a fish out of water here. It’s why we’re having you sit in on these meetings as well. Of course, we still have the authority here, but since you might be editing it, we want your personal opinion on these as well,” he explains, finally looking up to face Akaashi as he takes a sip from his coffee.

The undertone his dark eyes said was: _Don’t mess this up._

“Well, don’t take it too hard,” Tomokazu adds on, leaning back on the couch, hands behind his neck. “Deadline’s still far away, we have plenty of time to choose.”

“It’s that attitude you have that makes you barely make the deadlines,” Ichinose reprimands. “This is a fast industry. We can’t be falling behind.”

“I know, I know,” but the way he said it made it sound like he wasn’t too worried. “Say, Akaashi-kun.” Tomokazu turns his focus onto him. “ Have you ever given any thought about being a full-time editor? If you do get chosen to become the editor for this magazine, there’s a chance it might get published in Weekly Shonen Vie.”

“I haven’t given much thought to it yet. I’m still a college student, so scheduling would be a potential issue,” Akaashi responds.

And truthfully, he’s not even sure if he wants to become a manga editor, all things considered. It’s not that he didn’t have any passion for the subject, but it wasn’t a burning flame that he wanted to dedicate his entire life to, like a certain two he knows.

“What year again?”

“I’m in my third year.”

“Third year, huh…” Tomokazu pauses for a bit. “You’d probably be one of the youngest to become an editor here, if you do choose to become one. Even younger than me, wow.”

“Who was the one saying for him to not take it that hard again?” Ichinose sighs, head already in his reading again.

“My bad! Well, if you’re ever interested in the position, let us know. Depending on how you do from now on, you might just be hired,” the younger man concludes with a wink, sitting back up. “Alright, let’s get back to this before my eyes completely burn out.”

The meeting resumes with Tomokazu’s words echoing in Akaashi’s mind.

* * *

“So how’s things going with your neighbor?”

“That was kind of a big failure! She never agreed to do anything with me. Haven’t seen her ever since, not even on the balcony. Guess art sure does take up a lot of time, huh? But I’ll try again sometime later!”

Akaashi meets up with Bokuto at a small restaurant for lunch today—the spiker wanted to take him out as a gesture of appreciation for making lunch the other day (which old Bokuto would’ve never done).

He delicately picks up a couple strands of noodles, gently blowing on them to cool them down. “And how about the national team practice?”

“Pretty well! We’re definitely going to get some wins this year at FIVB and the Asian Games! That Ushiwaka guy is really an interesting guy though! His spikes already had a lot of power to them, but he still wants to change up his swing! Isn’t that pretty cool? Maybe I should do something as well… but Bokuto Beam is already amazing as is…” Bokuto ponders out loud as he takes a large bite out of a slice of pork. “Mm, delicious!”

Bokuto talked about nationals practice like it was just another, normal day for him, like the whole nation wouldn’t be watching him in the upcoming games. But at that level, Akaashi supposes it’s to be expected.

He would be lying if he said he sometimes didn’t wish for just a millimeter of Bokuto’s self-confidence, his golden eyes trained straight forward, his arms held out wide, ready for anything coming his way. It was that same quality that drew Akaashi towards him the first time he saw the spiker play.

(and to some extent, you as well.)

They continue chatting for a little while until their bowls are cleared. Bokuto ordered a second bowl, devouring it at almost sonic speeds (most likely still seconds behind Shirofuku) this time.

“By the way, if you’re interested in meeting your neighbor, she’ll be at Geidai’s festival tomorrow, starting at 1,” Akaashi blurts out without thinking, and he briefly thinks he might’ve made matters even worse, but then he realizes that there’s a high chance you wouldn’t even see Bokuto if he played his cards right.

 _I’ll make it work_ , he thinks. _It won’t be too troublesome._

Akaashi’s not sure why he told Bokuto this information. Perhaps a part of him wants to help out his friend or a part of him is just tired of hearing you talk about Bokuto (and he’s not sure why that is). All he knows is that there would probably be no other chance to see you outside your apartment in the near future. 

Bokuto pauses his slurping for a second, almost choking on his noodles in the process.

“Wait, what’s Geidai?” He tilts his head in confusion.

“Tokyo University of the Arts. It’s close to where you live. If you want to know your neighbor, it might be best to get to know what she does.”

Unbeknownst to Akaashi at the time, telling the spiker about this would set off a chain reaction that you, him, and Bokuto would be completely unprepared for later.

* * *

“Looks good from here!”

“Alright, coming down now.”

You climb down the ladder and go to where Tachibana is standing, in the very center of your exhibition room.

Today, she’s wearing something straight out of the bubblegum fashion scene, with a visual kei/lolita mix of a short dress embellished with metallic accents. On her hands are a pair of lace gloves. Socks with frilly ribbons go up to her kneecaps, and her feet sported strawberry-print sneakers. Her pink hair, currently cut short with choppy bangs, further emphasized the bubblegum part.

In short, a true artist look.

Meanwhile, you elected to wear a simple sweater and semi-formal pants. With fashion, artists either went all out or not at all. It was pretty obvious which one you are.

The two of you must’ve made an odd duo to any passerby; even you didn’t expect to be friends with her in Figure Drawing 1 way back in freshman year. Tachibana Ayumi was a pretty subdued person, despite her loud fashion sense. However, with her easy-going personality, coupled with your admiration for her superflat paintings, the two of you grew closer over the years, eventually becoming good friends.

Emphasis on good—sometimes she toed the line on boundaries, but she never pushed further than necessary.

“This is finished then. Thanks for your help, it’s much appreciated,” you say, dusting off your hands.

“No problem! But wow, seeing your gallery now complete like this… I knew you were good when you first came in, but this is amazing! You’ve grown so much!” Tachibana surveys your exhibit with a beam on her face.

“What, height-wise? I think I’m still the same.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“You flatter me too much,” you reply, shaking your head. “Your exhibition’s definitely going to be the most popular here. Oh, but Ishikawa and Saya-chan have been really finding their groove lately too.”

“Aw, thank you! And right? Did you see Rina-chan’s new piece by the way? I’m glad she stuck to her metal installments!”

“Oh yeah, I bought this necklace from her. The detailing really is spectacular.” You hold up the intricate weaving of metal hanging around your neck. Tachibana’s pink eyes (she liked coordinating hair and eye colors on special occasions) widened in admiration. “Speaking of detailing, Azumane’s really stands out too!” she muses, stepping back.

“Yeah, I’m really glad to see all those clothes finished, he was really stressing over them the last couple days. I was afraid he was actually going to go bald with how tight his ponytail was being tied,” you comment, placing your hand right below your nose in thought.

“I don’t think people go bald with their hair tied back tightly…”

“Eh, that so? Well, I’m glad it's back to normal now.”

“By the way, you want to walk around together a bit before we start? We still have five minutes, right?”

It was really, _really_ hard to say no to Tachibana's pleading face. 

“Thanks, but I think I’m gonna stay here. Get some alone time with this before it all starts, you know? Oh, but I’ll text you once I’m sick of talking to people.”

“You got it! I’ll see you then!” She gives a small wave to you and walks away.

You inspect the painting you just hung up, the largest piece in your exhibit, standing at almost two meters tall and three meters wide. This you kept at school, since there was absolutely no way you’d drag this monstrosity back and forth from your tiny apartment. It’s your most ambitious piece yet with six figures spread across the canvas, your pièce-de-résistance. Countless days and nights were spent in your school studio to finish just in time for today.

You’re just relieved that it's done, all things considered.

Geidai’s festivals are held once a year during early autumn, where students showcase their work to the local community. The first time you participated, you were incredibly nervous over exposing your work to the public eye. Now that you’re a senior, it doesn’t bother you as much. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a blonde-haired underclassmen wearing a simple dress, twitching nervously as she stands next to her exhibit.

 _Yep, was just like that._ You’d offer some words of condolence for her, but she looked a bit too jumpy for a couple words to suffice.

“We’re opening now!” somebody yells, and you snap back to attention. If things went well here, you could gain a couple more clients, maybe even some offers from galleries, or just sell some works.

A large crowd shuffles their way in the museum, immediately dispersing into the galleries like rivulets running down a rock. Blurs of faces pass by you, all dressed in some sort of business casual attire. In just mere seconds, the once-silent museum had now become a bustling center of activity.

“Sasaki-chan, here you are!” A woman in a wacky-patterned dress and leather bag makes her way towards you with a wave.

You put on your best professional smile, the second-to-last time you’d have to for the school year.

“Hello again, Yamada-san. How are you doing this afternoon?”

* * *

Akaashi arrives at the Tokyo University of the Arts a bit later than expected due to traffic, Bokuto nowhere to be seen. He had texted him a bit earlier asking where he was, the latter replying with just a “???” and nothing else.

In other words, Bokuto Koutarou is either extremely lost or didn’t know what Akaashi was talking about (or his phone battery died). Sooner or later, he’d find him, so he’s not that worried. Judging by the message, Bokuto most likely hasn’t found you yet either, so there was no imminent danger present.

He enters the museum, already crowded with people, scanning around to find you as quickly as possible. His eyes land on your exhibition some distance away with lifesize paintings hanging on the walls. You’re conversing with some people who seemed to be very invested in whatever you were saying, but you didn’t look quite as interested. 

Akaashi decides to wait until the people leave before he approaches you. There’s a whole gallery to explore, after all.

\--

_“Keiji-kun, I’m coming back here as soon as I graduate to become an artist!”_

_He could only stare at you in response, unsure of how to answer. In truth, he was more captivated by how the setting sun lit your hair on fire at the edges and blown away at the look of pure determination on your face._

_It screamed to him no matter what, you’d be able to do it._

_And he believes so too._

_“I’ll be cheering you on then, (Name)-san.”_

\--

A slight smile graces his features as Akaashi’s admiring your work. You certainly stuck to your word back then, and he’s glad he can see your journey. The sheer size of your works are a wonder to behold and he can’t even begin to imagine how much time it took for you to finish them. They each told of a different story within the layers of paint, beckoning him to come closer and dive into their worlds.

While he’s not as well-versed in art as he is literature, he knows your compositions and attention to detail are something truly special that must’ve taken a great amount of work to realize on the canvas.

“Keiji-kun! Glad you made it. Was wondering when you’d show up.” He turns around and sees you, wearing a knit sweater, somewhat formal pants with a metal piece hanging around your neck.

_I wouldn’t want to miss any of your shows._

“My apologies, I was running a bit late because of traffic. But your works are really something else. I’m glad I came,” he says instead.

“Thank you, that means a lot coming from you. I swear, if I have to talk to another old man I might burst,” you mutter darkly. 

_Is there anything I can do to help?_

“Is it that bad?”

“I’m looking for _this_.” You hold up your hand, thumb and index finger forming a circle. “But they’re giving me a bunch of sentimental bullshit about my grandfather instead, which is not this,” you shake your hand violently.

_Do you want me to stay?_

“Good luck with that.”

He’s mentally berating himself for not saying anything more.

Your eyes suddenly carry an ominous glint. “Actually… would you like a sticker? Buy a couple and I can offer you a discount.”

He very much would like some. 

Akaashi picks out a sticker of a serene landscape and one of your six figures painting. He’ll put it on his laptop later.

He wants to stay just a bit longer, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees another group of people approaching you. Not wanting to be the one to hold you up, Akaashi decides to leave.

“It was great seeing your show,” he says after his purchase. “I’ll be looking forward to the graduation one.”

You smile at him. “Thanks, Keiji-kun.”

For some reason, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

* * *

_where are you right now? (14:34)_

**_tachibana_ **

_at azumane’s exhibit! (14:38)_

_ok i’ll be there in a bit! (14:39)_

Azumane’s exhibit is on the opposite side of the museum from yours. You took your time getting there, wanting to appreciate the works on display. Yoshino, who had asked you and some others to be placed in a mild cryogenic state, ended up going with large ice cubes with elaborate, colorful floral arrangements with some resemblance to the human figure encased inside, most likely due to ethical reasons.

You pause briefly at Tachibana’s exhibition, who had her iconic paintings of girls in a fantasy land, using a muted pastel palette accompanied with the occasional pops of color hanging on the walls—her work focused on concepts of femininity and self-discovery, tied with science fiction (something she always had a pronounced interest in). As expected, there’s a large crowd of people admiring her work, some snapping photos, some filling out forms for buying pieces. Tachibana had already received offers to exhibit in galleries internationally and was thinking about applying to some international art schools in Europe.

Europe. Only the best (or the rich) went there to continue their studies. A couple people in your class had gushed over the idea of studying there, as so many invaluable pieces of art that paved the way for whole movements would be just a bus ride away.

It’s not like you didn’t see its appeal. Da Vinci and Bernini and Monet and Titian and Rodin and Vermeer and a plethora of others were in Europe. But you never felt personally drawn to the continent—learning a new culture and language and adapting to other social norms seemed like a lofty, unattainable dream. Maybe one day, you’d go there on a visit. But studying there? It was out of the question.

(though, maybe why Tachibana is more successful was because she was always looking to expand; you were content with what you have right now.)

Continuing your walk, you pass by Ishikawa’s glass shards in the shape of spheres hanging from the ceiling, creating a beautiful, scattered lighting effect on the floor (who had been stressing over making the lighting hit _just_ right), Jihoon’s projections of abstract films on thin curtains (for the past couple weeks, he had been setting up a new camera whenever you saw him), and Sayako’s video art combining photography and animation playing on a bunch of old TVs stacked on top of each other (getting those TVs was a trouble of its own). Further along, there’s organic forms carved from wood protruding outwards, a series of calligraphy brush art, and abstract murals all on the walls.

Despite what everybody says about not comparing yourself with other artists, sometimes it just couldn’t be helped. You marveled at the creations of others and wondered just how they were able to make them. Then you look at your own paintings, old and tired, and wonder why yours felt so lackluster in comparison. Sure they were good, but they could be _better,_ but you didn’t know how to take that step forward, but you're not even sure where to go from here.

Tachibana had said you grew, but you only saw it as the canvas size getting larger with each passing year.

_Well, whatever. I'll deal with that later or something._

Outside, you catch glimpses of the extremely large and site-specific sculptural works, along with the rows of food stalls set up. Dull pangs of hunger from your stomach reminded you of your single onigiri for lunch. _I wonder if they have the dango stall again. The crepes last year were delicious too!_

With a quickened pace, you finally arrive at Azumane’s exhibit. Azumane’s work features intricate, patterned clothing on dress forms, each with wildly different types of fabric to create a variety of textures. A decently-sized crowd of people are milling around, and you take some time to weave through and examine each piece. Drawing wasn’t exactly his forte when he first entered the school, but he grew into a fine artist and designer as the years went on. Even in this show, he pulled out new techniques for the dresses on display that you had never known to be possible before.

Everybody around you, it seemed, was doing something new, while you still stubbornly clung to a figment of the past, holding onto it for dear life.

“Sacchi, over here!” Tachibana’s voice calls out, and you turn to see the woman again, standing next to Azumane.

Azumane Asahi, Geidai’s tallest man. While he was in the fashion department, his own clothing style was plain—today, he’s wearing a gray sweater and dark blue slacks. His shoulder-length brown hair is tied back in a loose ponytail. When it’s let down, he oddly resembles Jesus with his goatee.

He had the countenance of a deer despite his height—Azumane once mentioned he played volleyball in high school and even got to the semifinals in Nationals during his third year. A certain gray-haired mutual friend often commented on how imposing he was on the court, something you could never imagine due to his natural timidness but caring heart, like a large teddy bear.

You approach the two, waving your hand at them. “Hey again, Tachibana. And Azumane, all of this really is amazing! You’d definitely get featured in those luxury magazines!” you exclaim.

For the past four years, Azumane had been working part-time at some ateliers and was now in the process of starting his own. Things according to him were “pretty stressful, but I’ve got a pretty good feeling about this working out.”

“Hello, Sasaki. And thank you, I’m really glad to hear you think that,” he replies, smiling softly. “I’d like to pop by your exhibit as I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“Sure thing! But you fashion people sure are far away from us, it was really tiring for me to get over here... I want to eat some takoyaki right now!” You clap your hands together.

“Already jumping ahead with the food?” Tachibana sighs good-naturedly. “Do you ever think about anything else?”

“Nah, there’s actually one more,” you reply, holding up your index finger.

“What is it?”

Your finger and thumb meet again, forming the same circle you showed Akaashi. “This thing! I’ve managed to sell a lot of stuff today, so we’re hitting all the stalls! Don’t fall behind!”

The three of you set off to enjoy the very last midyear festival of your undergraduate years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more things are developing featuring headcanons! though extremely slowly... but with the next chapter things are gonna take a turn :)
> 
> *also of note: geidai doesn't actually have a fashion program but i wanted to write in azumane... man deserves sum love... he'll show up in more scenes later... and introducing a somewhat important oc who's based off of takano aya irl (even though she went to a diff school). anyways, hope you enjoyed!


	7. reunions always bring up things you didn't want to remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akaashi was the star you had always wished to become and you were stuck on the ground, with no means to reach him.
> 
> //
> 
> You were a rocket that streaked straight past him, not even glancing his way, and he can only watch you travel to a final destination that was somewhere much bigger, much greater than what he could ever offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as stated previously, slight tone shift here.

December is announced with the first flurry of the year.

The shades of red on Ueno Park’s trees have all fallen off, replaced by a light dusting of smoky white. People on the streets started layering up with their scarves, hats, and winter coats. Santas, snowmen, mini Christmas trees, and neon candy canes popped up in front of stores and restaurants while the trees started sporting colorful string lights. Every year it always felt like the holiday season arrived a week earlier than the last.

Of course, none of this you bothered looking at.

After the semester ended, you crawled into your bed for a week straight, entering your own form of hibernation, going out solely to the convenience store and talking with no less than zero people (not even the clerk who had wished you “Merry Christmas!” because it was just a season of consumerism and other capitalist garbage once you really look at it).

Then you remembered you had an increased load of work to do because holiday season to artists meant everybody with a bit more money in their pockets and upturned noses liked to send paintings to their relatives or friends, so you grudgingly went back to work. Luckily, none of the commissions are too demanding, so you got them done in a reasonable time frame to send out.

You also popped by Akaashi’s apartment on the 5th for a quick birthday visit to give him a card with a cute owl sketched on it and a pair of Gudetama socks, extra fuzzy. Mainly because you honestly don’t know how to pick out gifts. He looked quite bemused receiving it, thanking you nonetheless.

* * *

The sky is darkest before dawn, and Akaashi is naturally asleep like a log during this time. Because of all the holiday extras, he had a heavier workload at Shueisha, along with studying for his midterms, so tonight he wanted to sleep as much as he could before another long day tomorrow.

And just as naturally during this time, his phone rings. He picks up after the third ring.

“Yo, Keiji-kun. Are you awake?” you ask, chirpy as always.

“Mm.”

He was not.

“I’ll take that as a barely. I was doing some thinking and I decided I’ll just stay over your place for just three days this break. Not because I feel bad, but also because I have things to do. No take backs on this. Anyways, I think I was gonna call you about something important, what was it again...? Oh right, do you mind going to the station at the earliest time possible this year? It’ll be a super big pain for me to wake up early, but I don’t want to deal with whatever happened last year too. That was kind of rough. Hey, you there? Give me a word if you are.”

As always, you rattle your words right off with no breaks in between.

“Um,” the sleepy man replies, rolling to the left side of his bed. He glances at the alarm clock on his desk, the green fluorescent numbers not processing in his brain, which is covered in a thick fog. All he knows is that it’s too dark out. 

“‘Um’? Well I guess that works. By the way, thanks for stopping by the other day at the exhibit. I managed to make a profit selling my stuff this year, and I know I gave you a discounted price, but maybe that was what it took to earn me some profit. Oh, but it’s not just you though, I guess. Still, I appreciate it a lot. Now I don’t have to worry about my bills again.” 

“Er. No problem.” His mind is still blank.

“You ever think about who’s still up right now? I look outside my window and still see some lights on in rooms, and I wonder what the people in there are doing sometimes. It’s fun thinking about what kind of lives people are leading that make them stay awake right now. Whether the room across from me is having a steamy love affair, or maybe holding a secret meeting to decide the fate of the universe... Maybe there’s someone out there looking at my window too? But thinking about it, I guess it’s the really weird ones that are still up. I guess that would make me a weird one then, too.” You pause for a bit, adjusting the phone. “I really wonder why I’m more awake during this time. I’m like an owl or something, that’s gotta be it.”

“Um. Probably nobody. And you’re awake because you work all the time.” This time he manages to form a sentence as he rubs his eyes.

“Oh, there’s the Keiji-kun I know. You have midterms coming up, right? I should let you sleep now then. But this time at night really is pretty, when the sun starts to rise and it's light out only at one edge of the sky. You see it come up and you’re left breathless. I think I won’t ever get sick of that sight, I don’t know why. I’d suggest you see it for yourself one day, but you sleep at reasonable hours, unfortunately. Wait, but if you're up right now too, wouldn't you be a weird one? Or would you not count because I woke you up?”

“Maybe one day then,” he replies, finally without using a filler word. "And I don't know, honestly." Quite frankly, he doesn't have the brain capacity to think about the considerations of being weird right now. "Is that all you wanted to call me about? Booking tickets early? At what time in the morning?” he asks, tone a bit crankier than intended.

“Oh, I guess so.” Your voice suddenly takes on a curt edge. “Er, Sorry. And it’s 4:15. Sleep well, have a nice dream. I’ll see you then. Thanks for picking up.” Without another word, you hang up.

His final thought is on your response—for some reason, it doesn’t sit right with him—and he falls back asleep on his pillow, the whole conversation slipping out of his mind just as quickly as it came.

* * *

Some days later, Akaashi meets you at your apartment to head to Ueno Station. You briefly exchange greetings and head out. The morning chill bites at your face as you step outside; the sound of the rolling suitcase behind you, and the start of a waking city fills your ears. The first rays of the sun have peeked through the skyline in the distance.

The two of you don’t talk much on the subway ride. You’re not sure what to talk about anyways, having said most of what you wanted to a couple nights ago. 

Akaashi’s reading a book. You eventually doze off on his shoulder in an attempt to catch up on the many hours of sleep you’ve lost over the school year.

The subway train speeds forward in the darkness.

* * *

It’s a bit before noon when you finally arrive at Akaashi’s house, located in a quaint neighborhood tucked away in Shinjuku. You had _severely_ overestimated the time it took to get here and ended up walking aimlessly around for a little while.

“I’m home,” Akaashi announces as he opens the front door of the house, a small, two-story white building with a small pine tree growing out front, sandwiched in between two similarly-built buildings.

“Pardon my intrusion!” you call out as you enter the somewhat cramped genkan, taking off your shoes and putting on the slippers specially set out for you.

“Keiji! And (Name)-chan! Welcome back!” Akaashi’s mother, a short woman with a bob of graying hair, greets you two with a warm smile.

“Thank you for having me as always, Ichika-san,” you bow, and hand her a small gift bag. “Please take this as a bit of my gratitude.” Inside are two tea cups that you made with the help of somebody you knew in ceramics.

(“I feel like your family is just mooching off me for the free art,” you had once commented to Akaashi.

“Is that how you take our hospitality,” he deadpanned.

“I’ve said before, I don’t need to stay over at your place though,” you joked, but you really were appreciative of his parents’ offer.

strangely, he didn’t answer.)

“Oh my, you didn’t have to!” She takes the small gift bag from your hand. “We’re always glad to have you over. Lunch is almost ready, so once you put your suitcases away just head on to the dining room.” 

You make your way upstairs on the similarly cramped wooden staircase forever a bit creaky, Akaashi trailing right behind. The majority of your art supplies you left back in Ueno, save for your sketchbook and pens, so dragging your suitcase up proved to be little effort.

“Do you need any help getting set up?” Akaashi asks once the two of you stand right in front of the guest room.

“‘M good, thanks for the offer though.” You slide open the door, revealing the slightly small but cozy guest room. The futon was already laid out, the same wooden desk and chair in a corner, and a floor lamp in another. The window, giving you a perfect view of the neighboring roof and sky, is cracked open.

 _This wallpaper is different than last time._ Dusty pink replaced the old, olive green walls of last year, and instead of hanging on the left wall, your framed riverside drawing is now above the desk.

Even if they thought of you as family, there would always be little things that reminded you of your guest status. You were expecting that, though.

None of the clothes you packed you hang up in the closet as there wasn’t much to begin with. After splashing cold water on your face in an attempt to freshen up, you head back down the stairs. The smell of fried rice wafts out from the kitchen.

“Hello (Name)-chan!” Akaashi’s father, sitting at the dining room table, glances up from his newspaper and smiles warmly at you. His graying hair is cut close to his head, though he has no signs of balding yet. Akaashi inherited some nice hair genes, it seems. “It’s always good to see you around here.”

“Thank you for having me as always, Eiichi-san. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Don’t you worry about that as our guest! But this man over here could do some work,” Akaashi’s mother playfully nudges the man at the table as she sets out plates on the table. 

“Dear, you always say I’ll ruin everything if I help out though.”

“Still doesn’t hurt to try,” she giggles, setting out bowls on the counter.

“And then if he does, you’d blame him even more,” Akaashi interjects, pushing up his glasses. You hadn’t even heard him come down the steps. His slim frame is leaning against the doorway, and he’s now wearing a simple dark blue shirt and gray shorts, remnants from his volleyball days. 

“Oh, just in time! Take a seat, the two of you,” Ichika gestures to the chairs, and you take a seat opposite from Akaashi’s father, Akaashi occupying the one next to you. She carries over the plates of warm food and sets them on the table. A chorus of “Thanks for the meal!” rings out and everybody starts eating.

There’s a couple moments of silence before Ichika barrages Akaashi with questions about his internship, Akaashi answering every one of them thoroughly, and his father occasionally interjecting some comments.

Despite knowing the Akaashi family for so long, each time you entered the house, you always felt like an intruder blending in with the family. The warm, cozy atmosphere that would’ve been a blanket for anybody else felt a bit suffocating to you.

Though, you were glad you could eat Ichika’s fried rice. It outdid itself every year.

“By the way, have you gotten the results back from that competition, (Name)-chan? What was the name again?” Akaashi’s mother asks, facing you.

“Oh, the Emerging Artist one? I only ended up as a semifinalist,” you reply after hurriedly swallowing down some rice.

“Ah, that’s too bad to hear! We’re so sorry to have missed out on the festival by the way, I’m afraid our work schedules just couldn’t allow us.”

“Don’t worry about it, the graduation show is the most important one, anyways.”

The blank form left on your desk back in Ueno is still fresh in your mind. Even after Kimura’s talk, you only managed to write your name on it. You take another bite of rice a bit fervently, swallowing down that thought.

“We’ll be sure to make that one! Time sure flies by though, doesn’t it? I can’t believe you’ll be graduating soon!” she exclaims, clapping her hands together. “Sometimes it feels like yesterday when you and Keiji were still in elementary school!”

“It does feel like all the years have gone by faster than expected,” you reply.

“Before you know it you’ll be settled, with kids… ah, but maybe things are different in your industry?” Ichika delicately dabs her lips with a napkin.

“Most of us are too busy with art to focus on those matters.”

The few surviving relationships that lasted up until now were usually formed from an artistic partnership. Most people kept things casual and brief—including yourself. It was easier this way; there were no broken feelings that could lead to potential rifts and troubles down the line (though even then, there had been some particularly messy incidents in the past).

The woman gives a small hum in response. “Keiji here still hasn’t had a girlfriend yet, hasn’t he?”

“Not that I know of,” he responds swiftly, reaching for his glass of water. With those words, the conversation is brought to a slight close, leaving behind a tense silence.

Akaashi, like you, never seemed the type to be interested in romantic prospects. You’re not even sure if he has a type.

His father, quick to pick up on the awkwardness, deflects the topic. “By the way, how’s that boy Bokuto doing? If he went to college, wouldn’t he be graduating this year?”

“He’s (Name)-san’s neighbor this year, surprisingly. Still on the Black Jackals and recently got on the national team,” Akaashi answers.

“Is that so? Well, he’s always had it in him. When you see him again, send him our congratulations.” Eiichi takes a sip of his soup. “Does he know what he’s doing after his volleyball career?”

“Not sure. Pretty sure he’s not worried about that right now.”

If there was any hint of bitterness in his response, Akaashi’s parents don’t pick it up.

“Um… I knew Keiji-kun is friends with Bokuto-san, but I didn’t realize you two also know him,” you pipe up.

“Oh, he’s been Keiji’s friend since Keiji started high school!” Ichika beams. “The two are quite opposite in personality, but they’ve gotten along pretty well.”

“I really wouldn’t say that—”

“Actually, Bokuto was the one who got Akaashi into volleyball, wasn’t it?”

Akaashi politely coughs in his arm. “It was more just—”

“Really now? How’d that happen?” you raise an eyebrow, pointedly staring at Akaashi trying to get him to be quiet.

“When was it again… we were watching a high school volleyball game, Fukurodani against some other school, and Akaashi was super impressed by Bokuto’s performance! He later chose Fukurodani to go to high school, no doubt inspired by Bokuto!” His mother fondly recalls with an affectionate chuckle at the end.

“I see, that’s certainly interesting. I had never heard that story before!” You try to hold back an incoming laugh while Akaashi’s eye twitches a bit more than normal.

“He's somebody who never gave up." Ichika leans slightly over the table with a twinkle in her eye. "Keiji told me about that one time his crosses kept getting blocked—that’s the move where they spike the volleyball to the opposite direction—so then he ended up working on his straights, even if they were looked down upon in the game. Then he got so good at those, nobody could block him!”

And even though you knew hardly anything about your neighbor, for some reason, the story really fit him. You could visualize that man on a volleyball court, slamming down the ball with an unrivalled power. Why was it so easy to do so?

“Dealing with his mood swings wasn’t exactly fun, even if he was nationally ranked as an ace,” Akaashi sighs.

“But you were still able to pull through, weren’t you? I still think you should’ve continued volleyball in university, but you told me you wanted to focus on your academics, so I can’t complain.” Eiichi-san lets out a hearty laugh.

Akaashi bites the bottom of his lip in response.

“Thanks for the meal, Ichika-san. It was truly delicious.” You stand up, unable to take anymore lunchtime conversation and carry your plate to the sink. 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, dear! Let me handle it,” she says, getting up from her seat too. 

“Please don’t worry about it, this is nothing. I feel bad for coming over every break, anyways.”

“Oh, please! We’re always glad to have you over! And you’re free to swing by whenever you can once you’re graduated!” She pats your shoulder affectionately.

You merely smile in response.

* * *

It's time to say a few words about the man named Akaashi Keiji.

Akaashi’s relationship with his parents is blandly normal. Not in a fairytale way where they lived happily together day to day, they had their fair share of familial drama, but everything gets resolved in the end. He got good grades in school and was an obedient, well-behaved kid. It was an unspoken expectation from his parents, set from some time he can't remember, so he worked hard to meet those expectations.

Growing up, his parents’ only worry was that he was too much on the shy side; choosing most of his time to read under a tree rather than socialize with the neighborhood kids.

Then along came you, in all of your Hokkaido glory, and moved in next door. Even though you were a year older, you approached him every day, most likely since he sat alone during lunch break while everybody else was in their tight-knit circles (or you were too scary to them), and somehow you eventually developed a good relationship with the younger boy.

Good enough that he’d talk to you, at least.

“Why do you spend all that time reading?” you had asked him one day on the way home from school, tearing off the wrapping of a Yakult bottle you just bought at the convenience store.

“I enjoy the different worlds writers create,” he explained simply, not looking up from his book. “That’s really all there is to it.”

“That’s kind of like me with my grandfather! He’s a really famous artist and does all these really cool landscape paintings!” In less than five seconds you’ve downed the drink, something he’s a bit shocked at, and you let out a satisfied sigh. “One day I want to become like him! Keiji-kun, do you know what you’re gonna be when you grow up?”

He flips to the next page. “I haven’t given much thought about it,” he decides to say. His current focus was mostly on his books, as when he read he didn't need to think about all the Big Adult Decisions lying in wait for him that his parents yelled about at night.

“That’s okay too! Just let me know when you do!”

Throughout high school, his parents expected him to get into a good college and that’s exactly what he did—Akaashi kept up good grades, played his heart out in volleyball, got accepted into a decent private college, and is currently majoring in literature. But it felt more like an obligation to attend, rather than a true passion, like you have with art or Bokuto has with volleyball.

In the first place, he’s never had much of a true passion or big dreams for anything. All he did was meet expectations, because he didn't know what else to do. During high school, he followed Bokuto’s bright, star-like quality onto the center court and got the chance to see a special sight only Bokuto could’ve shown him. He’s grateful for that opportunity, but he couldn’t follow that star forever, so he ended up rejecting all the pro team offers he got.

Maybe quitting volleyball was wrong, but he wanted something, _anything_ that could at least provide some change and guide him to what he wanted to do.

Akaashi met you again, at your second midyear festival for Geidai. From what he heard from his parents, they said you got into the prestigious art school on your first try. In the back of the university museum, he spots you, looking older, more tired, and taller, but still the same Sekiguchi (Name) that approached him as a kid. He's at first afraid to approach you, unsure of just how much change you went through, so he tries to blend with the crowd.

“Keiji-kun, is that really you?” A genuine expression of shock is on your face as he turns around to face you.

“Nice to see you again, (Name)-san, " he smiles. You pulled him into a tender, brief hug, and six years worth of missed time flies by; six years of knowledge, growth, and experiences all coalesced into one whole when he embraced you, finally catching up to the present. He believes—or at least wanted to—that nothing had changed since all those years back when you two separated. Everything would be alright again.

Because you were still busy with the festival, you ended up exchanging phone numbers with him, and told him “I’ll call you sometime soon!”

He most definitely didn’t expect that call at 3:43 AM.

You went on unfiltered about being in Tokyo, how you felt awkward visiting your family, and some more rambling about Christmas time being heavy with the workload. He offered the occasional comment and jab at you once he was fully awake. 

“Do you want to stay over at my parents’ place for the break?” comes out of his mouth unexpectedly.

“You sure I can do that? I can just stay in the dorms.”

 _I want to see you again,_ is what he almost says.

“It’s fine, my parents wouldn’t mind,” comes out instead.

Akaashi had to later call them that evening, briefing them about the situation, and they were more than willing to let you stay over, thankfully. From then on, it became a tradition of sorts for you to stay the holidays.

He sometimes wonders if the universe was okay with him making such a selfish request. You only ever called him when it was convenient to you, so the couple days he gets to spend with you had to be an acceptable tradeoff, right?

_But who in the world would be happy with something like this?_

The half moon hangs right outside his window and while faint, he can see twinkling specks against the dark sky. He lets out a small sigh that goes unheard in the night.

_Unfortunately, I am._

* * *

Even if you were at the Akaashi residence for only a couple of days, you found yourself staring at walls more than you’d like, your dominant hand feels weird not holding something, and your mind was _thinking_ for once.

Thinking made you think about the blank form, the multitude of paintings you still had to finish, the commissions piling up in your email that you’d tackle once you got back, and even your neighbor’s annoyingly bright face popped up a couple of times.

Thinking is the worst.

You popped into Akaashi’s room more times than you could count, since you could at least bother him about some random thing you were thinking about, claiming you didn’t like the pink on the walls. 

The second day, you decide to go out and accompany him to the supermarket.

“I appreciate you coming along and all, but are you sure you know what you’re doing?” He asks, pushing the cart while you hold a basket in your arm. 

“I know a lot, don't underestimate my mother! You know, like slapping the watermelon to check if it’s ripe—”

“Watermelons aren’t even in season right now.”

“Don’t fuss over the small details.”

First is the produce section. Akaashi picked out what they needed, while you wandered around the crates and boxes of vegetables and fruits.

“Hey, this is the thing you like, isn’t it?” You hold up a bunch of greens on the verge of blooming tiny yellow flowers for him to see. “What were they called again… rapeseed?”

He gives a glance over and nods. “I’m surprised you remembered.”

“Well, you barely have any favorites. Let’s put some in the cart then!” Ignoring his voice of protest, you place it on top of the potatoes. 

You two head to the seafood section. 

“Oh! It’s a lobster!” you exclaim, pointing at the large metal bin where the crustaceans are piled in.

“That’s a crayfish,” he answers, studying the shrimp, no doubt running some calculations in his mind.

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“The crayfish lives in freshwater, and the lobster in saltwater.”

“Basically the same thing. In the first place, how were you able to tell?”

“You’re the one from Hokkaido, you should be able to tell the difference. Besides, they have labels printed there.” He adjusts his glasses, now looking at the fish.

You glance out of the corner of your eye. Indeed, there were labels neatly printed taped onto the bin.

Next, the dairy section.

“Let me get some ice cream for myself,” you say, pulling open the giant freezer door and picking your favorite flavor.

“It’s December.”

“I don’t care, I’m an adult.”

The snacks section.

“You’d definitely not be able to finish all that Pocky.”

“Try me.”

You end up spending way more time than necessary at the grocery store, so the two of you hurry back to Akaashi’s house, arms filled with grocery bags.

* * *

He’s slipping into a casual routine with you over break, something he rarely experiences.

You mumble a “good morning” to him when you (almost) tumble down the steps and say a “good night” when you finally exit his room at midnight (you claimed the pink walls in your room were a little too bright for your taste. he can’t tell if that was true or not).

Akaashi was never good with affectionate words. Kind words. Caring words.

Nor were you, to be honest. You had a lot of words, mostly wild, reckless, and inconsiderate ones. But you had gentle actions. The slight nudge on his arm, the warm twinkle in your eyes, your rare habit of poking his cheek, even if he was slightly embarrassed by it when you did it in public.

He treasures both your actions and your words deeply, holding onto each of them as if it was the only lifeline in an open ocean.

Some small part deep inside of him wants to continue this, maybe even for forever. Akaashi’s content spending time with you, doing such small small things almost as if the two of you were—

“Which flavor should I get?”

“How am I supposed to know? Please hurry up, we’re going to be late.”

“Boo. Time doesn’t exist in the first place.”

But another part of him knows it’s not possible. You were looking to a big, grand future that he can only be the observer to.

For now, he’ll just push the cart to the best that he can.

Given your terrible memory, he’s surprised you remembered his favorite food though.

* * *

The very last day, the two of you end up doing some casual sightseeing nearby, wanting to avoid the hustle of downtown Shinjuku. As most shops were closed due to it being Christmas Eve, there wasn’t much to do. Rows of historical architecture sporting thatched roofs line the sides, remnants from a past. The little bits of modernism—vending machines, utility poles, payphones—created an odd clash, as if the place was trying to move forward with two left feet. The two of you fall in a comfortable silence in each other’s presence, only talking when making a comment about something noticed.

When the sun begins to set, you two end up walking to a park.

“Should we take a break here before heading back?” Akaashi asks. “If you’re too cold, we can head back.”

“All good here. This coat’s pretty warm.”

You choose a bench and sit down.

The scene laid out in front of you is dyed in an orange glow, almost deserted, save for a few birds still flocking around. Some of the trees nearby have string lights twirling around the trunks and encircling the branches, not turned on yet. The faint smell of ramen drifts by. No doubt most families are currently in their warm homes enjoying a hot meal under the kotatsu, or cuddled up by the fireplace in swaths of blankets.

After a couple minutes of silence, you speak first.

“So how’s that internship really going?”

He glances at you, an eyebrow raised upwards. “What brought this on?”

“Just curious.”

“Aren’t you jumping in too quickly?”

“No way in hell I’m asking how’s the weather been.”

There’s a brief pause where Akaashi mulls over how to respond.

“I honestly don’t know what to make of it,” he decides to say.

“Care to explain?”

“I’m not entirely sure how to explain it. I don’t particularly hate it nor like it right now, but at the same time, it feels kind of strange.” He leans back on the bench, eyes gazing at the sky. “I thought I’d have this more figured it out by now. The future and all.”

“You think it’s strange you don’t?”

“In some ways, yes. I know this is just normal to feel, but…”

 _This wasn’t the plan_ , are the words he doesn’t say. _It’s not supposed to be like this._

Once he graduated high school, only a vague feeling greeted him. Akaashi was constantly wading through its waters with no light or destination. Where would it take him? 

“How do I say this...” you begin. “Figuring out your future is highly overrated!” you declare loudly as you suddenly sit upright. Some birds squawk off, flying away.

You had lost your teenage years to the company of the marble busts in the art room, never to be returned, to a dream you persisted on, despite so many people telling you it would be impossible.

“I know that’s probably not as effective coming from somebody like me who's only just a year older than you which won't make any difference later in life, but you’re still only a junior in college. College students get to do whatever the hell they want! Though I guess you do have to find a job and all, that can be a real pain..." you narrow your eyes in thought. "But go out and bike all the way up to Wakkanai on a self-discovery journey or something. It’s pretty cool there, I can vouch for it!”

And a part of you is sad that you wouldn’t be able to get back those years. Sure, you were one of the privileged in the world to figure out what you wanted to do with your life at a young age and follow through, but at what cost? Your life, from high school until now, consisted of the canvas and a brush.

Maybe it was because of that, you didn’t want Akaashi to fall into the same hole.

(besides, Sakamoto in Architecture did the exact same thing—biked up to Wakkanai with no money for two straight weeks, came back just a little more tanner and ended up joining a nomadic temple restoration group.)

“That’s pretty far,” he points out.

Though, this was the Akaashi Keiji, who had a mature, objective outlook on everything. You stubbornly stuck to one side and latched onto it, even if it wasn’t the best decision. He had absolute control over the situation, you were swayed by your impulses. He would probably take careful precautions to not fall into the hole after finding out about it ten kilometers beforehand.

“But you’re athletic, aren’t you? The point is, I think everybody has something they can do pretty well. And it doesn't even have to be all flashy or stunning or world-changing." A gentle but chilly breeze passes through, making you pull your coat in tighter. "Don’t worry about your worries. Like you said, they’re natural. Wait, does that make any sense?"

Akaashi was the star you had always wished to become and you were stuck on the ground, with no means to reach him.

“Not particularly. You’re not very good at giving advice," he replies.

He appreciates your effort nonetheless.

“Be quiet. Who knows, maybe you’ll be forty years old and decide you want to be a crab fisher in Wakkanai because of your self-discovery journey up there." You make a mock gesture of reeling in a fishing line. “Oh, if you do make it big and open up a shop, can you give me a discount?”

He shakes his head in disbelief, cracking a small smile on his lips. “That sounds a bit too far-fetched.”

(though he’s kind of happy that in your weird future scenario of his, you were in it too.)

“You never know though. It makes a lot of money, doesn’t it?”

“Do you think I’d really become a fisherman?”

You shrug. “Again, just saying. Nobody saw my grandfather becoming an artist, and yet, here we are."

That much was true, he couldn’t argue with it.

Your eyes rest on a pair of birds on a tree branch. Clearly they missed the migrating date, or they were just taking a quick rest on their way down south. The wind whistles by stronger this time, a filler for the conversation, rustling the branches of the trees surrounding you. A streetlamp in the distance flickers a bit before turning on. 

“Do you ever regret doing all of this? The whole decision to go to an art school.”

Before Akaashi realizes, the words have already tumbled out of his mouth. He looks to you in a panic, unsure of whether he went too far, but to his relief, your face betrays no twisted or angry emotion.

Instead, you merely sigh. “I don’t know.”

Because you truly, honestly don’t.

The birds fly off, separating from each other.

* * *

In the sunset, you glowed to him, as you always did.

He doesn’t dare to look deep in your gaze, in fear he falls deeper in its depths and loses himself. 

From a time four, five years ago, in a place that felt so large and alive, he once thought himself as a star, along with the rest of the team.

And he still is. Just a tiny star amongst a number too big to count in the vast universe.

But you were a rocket that streaked straight past him, not even glancing his way, and he can only watch you travel to a final destination that was somewhere much bigger, much greater than what he could ever offer.

What would you find there?

(would you be happy there?)

There’s many things he wants to blurt out to you then and there. But as always, he can never find the right words to say.

He’s just a ball of space gas in the end.

So he says nothing else.

* * *

“It was so great seeing you again, (Name)-chan! It really brought memories of when your family was still living near here, and we used to eat dinner together monthly. And to think you’d be friends with Keiji! We were all so worried that with his personality, he wouldn’t be able to make any friends-”

“Please spare us the details,” Akaashi interjects with a sigh.

The two of you headed back to Akaashi’s just in time for dinner before the sun had completely set. Akaashi’s mother went all out for your last night, as steaming bowls and plates of food covered the dining room table, emanating a mouthwatering smell. You take a sip from your bowl of miso soup, savoring the taste of what might be your last actual meal for a while.

“But we really were though! I’m so glad you’re still friends with my son after all these years. Oh, but I guess I’m not surprised, either. Didn’t the two of you make some sort of promise? What was it again...”

You tilt your head to the side, looking questionally at Akaashi. A hint of confusion crosses his face as he continues eating his rice.

“Oh, right! How could I forget? It was so adorable too—you both promised if the two of you were still single by 30, you’d marry each other!” Ichika claps her hands together in delight.

“Ah, I remember that too,” Akaashi’s father adds, nodding his head. “Young love is adorable, isn’t it?”

You spit out your rice. Akaashi chokes on his, hurriedly grabbing a napkin to wipe his mouth.

 _I don’t remember that at all!_ you scream in your mind. 

“Ah—that’s what that was? Aha…” you mumble out. 

Of all the things she could’ve said, you weren’t expecting this one. It seemed Akaashi didn’t either, as his hands are now fiddling with his chopsticks.

“Did you guys forget? Well, no rush anyways. The two of you aren’t even 25 yet.” Ichika gives a hearty chuckle. “Still, do you really have to leave tomorrow? You should spend at least Christmas with us!”

You hold up your hands, shaking them. “No no, I’ve already been intruding almost every year during the holidays, and I still have some leftover work to do.”

“Is that so? You artist types are always so busy, even during the holidays…”

The rest of dinner passes by with pleasant conversation, though you couldn’t quite look Akaashi in the eye again.

* * *

_An empty playground._

_He’s sitting on the swing next to yours._

_“Today’s the last day, huh? It’s gonna be weird moving back to the countryside.” You’re kicking the ground beneath you._

_“I’m sure it has its perks though,” he responds._

_In truth, he doesn’t want for you to leave. But you would always be a step ahead of him._

_“But I won’t be able to see you as much!”_

_“I know, but I’m sure we can still spend breaks together.”_

_You suddenly turn and face him, eyes sparkling._

_“Hey, Keiji-kun! I have an idea! Say if we’re still single by 30…”_

In the darkness of his room, Akaashi lies awake on his bed, watching the moon slowly come into view from the tiny window next to his bed.

He remembers it all.

* * *

The very next morning, you bid your farewells to the family, and head back on the subway to Ueno alone.

In the end, you never ended up talking to Akaashi about the promise. He retired to his room early that night and you didn’t want to disturb him. 

Even if he didn’t, you still don’t know how to approach that sort of subject. Who finds themselves in that sort of situation, anyways?

Was a promise made in your childhood years worth keeping? Words that seemed so important back then had all but faded away thanks to the passage of time. But there was still a layer of history, tightly woven, underneath the words that existed to this day, that could never be erased.

You lean your head against the window, watching the darkness fly by.

_Why am I even thinking about all of this? This is Keiji we’re talking about here._

For some reason, the subway feels slightly emptier than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know in the comments how yall are feeling after this! wondering where bokuto is? coming right up next week!


	8. take the good fortunes and tie up the bad ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bokuto considers himself a nice person, all things considered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this person is Dumb and somehow completely missed the fact that Hiroshi is a male given name... pretend that never happened. from now on your last name is Sasaki (and Tachibana calls you Sacchi). no there's really not any hidden meaning behind it.

Bokuto Koutarou has a hidden, special power.

This was a power that he never even told Kuroo nor Akaashi (though he might’ve let it slip out a bar once in Osaka, he’s not too sure on the details). It wasn’t that he wanted to keep it a secret, it just oddly never popped up in a conversation before. So it’s been kept hidden for as long as he could remember.

That is, no matter how much he drank the night before, he could never get a hangover.

Today is the same. He wakes up on a Saturday morning, head clear as always. A good night’s sleep always did wonders for the energetic man.

Practice was off for the day. Whenever Bokuto has a rest day, he has a habit of going out to the balcony first thing in the morning, since he liked the feeling of the sun on his skin.

And eleven steps was all he needed to get from his bed to the balcony. No more, no less.

He rolls out of bed, the beams of sun coming from his window having woken him up, and without a second thought, takes his first four steps to exit his bedroom. No sign of a throbbing headache. The next five to cross the living room, straight as a ruler, not even bumping into the sofa. Ten, eleven, to slide open his glass balcony door and go outside.

The now unfiltered morning sun shines down on him in greeting. He doesn’t need coffee or energy drink (and the world probably couldn’t handle a Caffeinated Bokuto), the rays of sun were all he needed to fully wake him up.

And to his surprise, there was a stranger on the balcony next to his.

A young woman wearing a simple but paint-splattered outfit leans against her balcony railing, staring off into the distance with a mug in hand. An air of stillness, a bubble of protection surrounded her, as if time stopped just for her. Her mug is brought to her lips, and he couldn’t help but admire how at peace she looked. It was the type of peace that flowed as a small stream down the face of a rock, high up in the mountains; one hard to find but made it all the more precious.

And her eyes.

Despite the heavy eye circles, those eyes were focused, surveying the entirety of her surroundings. What was she studying that had captured her attention so much? To him, it was always the same old buildings, nothing of particular interest to note. But she looked like she saw a completely different world than his in those eyes, a world Bokuto would never be able to reach.

Intrigued, he tries to reach out.

"Hey! You come out here too? Haven't seen you before! I guess we just miss each other, huh?"

But as soon as he did, the stillness disappeared, the bubble popped, time flowed again. Her eyes returned to a normal state and she morphed into an angry neighbor that Bokuto was quite scared to talk to.

At the same time—

there was something more, that she wouldn’t share with him.

* * *

Bokuto considers himself a nice person, all things considered.

Sure, it might not be the first word that somebody would use to describe him, but it was at least a word that could count in his description (unlike a certain blond up in Miyagi).

The crew ended up going over to Kenma’s house if he was ever in the mood for a party/hangout. Like his neighbor said, she wanted some space, so he literally does that.

Besides, he’s not really a big fan of staying in his apartment alone all that much.

“Why didn’t we do this in the first place? Your house is way bigger than my apartment!” he says, sprawled on the wooden floor, his lower body underneath the kotatsu. Tonight was just the four of them, celebrating Kuroo’s recent promotion at the Japan Volleyball Association.

“You guys never asked to host something here,” Kenma replies as if the answer was as clear as day, sipping on his tea.

“Kenma, you’ve gotten really cheeky ever since you graduated,” Bokuto’s lips form a pout and his eyes narrow in speculation. “Was it Kuroo’s influence on you?”

“Who knows.”

“But now we can watch movies in your home theater—”

“That’s my gaming room, not a home theater. Shoyo said the same thing,” the man sighs, setting down his cup. “Also, you guys better not go too wild, this is a residential district.”

“Don’t worry about it! I’ve decided to cut down to only four parties per month!” Bokuto declares, throwing his hands up.

“What’s with the sudden change?” Kuroo asks, popping a slice of a mandarin in his mouth.

“It’s the plan I developed to understand my neighbor better!” Bokuto suddenly sits up, startling Kenma a bit. “I call it Operation: Show My Neighbor How Amazing I Am! What do you think?”

“But your neighbor absolutely refuses to go out to even a single party,” Akaashi points out. He’s sitting opposite Bokuto, fingers in mid-peel of a mandarin. “Four and none are kind of a big difference. I’m sure even your terrible math skills can comprehend that.”

“Akaashi! Was that last part necessary? But if I did that, it seems kind of impossible…”

* * *

He sees the stranger again on a Saturday afternoon.

At Akaashi’s suggestion, Bokuto went to the Tokyo University of the Arts festival (he didn’t even know that school existed until now). The campus was exactly how he pictured an art one to look like, despite never seeing one before—layers of different materials stacked on top of each other in a modern style.

But to his dismay, he couldn’t find Akaashi once he got there, his phone was out of battery, and there was no map to help him out.

It was basically one of those situations where he didn’t know what he was doing.

All of what’s on the walls blurs past him. Some were giant photographs, others were sculptures, and there’s some that Bokuto didn’t know could be considered art. His primary focus is to find the exit and Akaashi, in no particular order.

He heaves a sigh, eyes trained on the ground, letting his feet take him anywhere. Bokuto never cared much about the arts, aside from music and Jump. The traditional art stuff is as far out of his realm as math is. He knows his neighbor is here, but he doesn’t even know her name—Akaashi had somehow missed out on giving that information to him. How would he ever find out which exhibit is hers? It was truly a dilemma.

“‘Scuse me,” Bokuto mumbles, accidentally bumping into someone. They don't pay him any attention. Curious, he looks up, and is surrounded by a lot of people that are standing around.

Then he sees the gigantic painting in front him. Probably the biggest he’s ever seen.

He’s at a loss for words to describe it. 

The six figures on the canvas reach out to him, inviting him into its depths. If he touched it, he’s half-expecting the touch of soft, warm flesh colliding with his calloused fingertips. It was a zap of electricity that coursed through his veins in a flash.

He spends some time at this exhibit, admiring each painting—they each sucked him into their own world, a balance between a traditional style and realism.

Bokuto stands in front of a particular piece for a while. While not grandiose in size and much more muted compared to the others, the whites weaved together on the piece beautifully, displaying the depth of the pigment. He studies all of the little details present—the face’s sharp features, the wispyness of the smoke, the subtle patterns on the vase, the lace on the hat. There was always something new to find between the brushstrokes, as if the painter had purposefully set out a game of hide-and-seek for him.

At that moment, in his world, only Bokuto Koutarou and this painting existed. A wordless bond, an intimacy that only he shares with the canvas. 

It almost makes him want to start taking art lessons. His hands twitch unconsciously, as if needing to do something.

“You like this piece too? A lot of people go to the largest one, but personally this one is my favorite out of the exhibit. The artist has an amazing eye for detail here, being able to separate all of the whites. Emotes quite the sense of tranquility too,” a deep voice behind him speaks out. Bokuto turns around, facing an old man dressed in a flannel and khaki suspenders. His long white hair is tied back, and while his posture was slightly hunched over, face creased with countless wrinkles, his eyes still held an invigorating youth to them.

Bokuto understood none of what this strange man said.

“Oh! Uh, yeah, I don’t really know how to say it, but it kinda… sucks you in, I guess? I feel pretty peaceful looking at this. Sorry, this is my first time at one of these. I don’t really know art,” he laughs nervously.

“Not to worry about. You don’t have to know about art to appreciate it. Simply liking it is enough of a reason.” The older man smiles fondly, which lifts the creases on his forehead.

“That makes sense, it’s kind of like me with volleyball...” Bokuto nods and turns back to the painting. “But at the same time… I’m not sure how to explain it. It feels like there’s something missing? It’s still amazing though, but it’s like it could be better? Though I don’t know how that’d work out though.” 

Maybe it was because he looked at the painting for too long, but something about the figure was just a bit too stiff for him, the colors a bit too muted. Still, these weren't hinders to his liking for the painting, but it did create a strange paradox. He knows he’s not an art expert, but it was like Tsukishima’s sense of the game before and after blocking Ushijima’s spike—not to be looked down upon, but missing something fundamental.

The old man nods his head. “I understand where you’re coming from. This artist has been known to be lacking a certain quality by some, and me knowing her professionally, I’d be inclined to agree, but most people still agree it is stunning to look at. You’re pretty perceptive about art as a volleyball player. Consider me impressed.”

“Reading what people are thinking about comes with the game! Thank you, uh…”

“You can call me Nanase.”

“Thank you, Nanase-san! I’m Bokuto Koutarou. Not sure if we’ll see each other again, but it was nice talking to you!” Bokuto bows slightly. Nanase gives him a small nod in return and walks away.

_Are all old art men like that?_

Bokuto takes his leave from the exhibit and starts to pay more attention to the rest of the art on display in the museum. None of them, however, held the same impact. Sure, they were amazing pieces, and Bokuto’s blown away at how someone could manage to make them, but they didn’t quite immerse Bokuto into their world.

Then, in the crowd of people, he saw that stranger’s face. 

With those same heavy eyebags and those same eyes, the young woman is stopped in front of a painting. Her eyes were sparkling with a glimmer of intensity he sometimes saw on his teammates’ and opponents’ faces during games, a fire that consumed everything in sight, looking straight forward.

He tries reaching out to her again, but she swiftly disappears into the masses of the people like a ghost, never to be seen again. 

Bokuto ends up going back to the exhibit with the all-white painting again, taking a seat at one of the benches. If he’s going to be lost, he might as well just be with his favorite painting some more.

Later, Akaashi finds him and the two head outside to sample (eat everything in Bokuto’s case) the food stalls. The exit of the museum was surprisingly closer than what Bokuto had expected.

“Oh yeah, where was my neighbor’s exhibit? Don’t think I saw it,” Bokuto remarks once they’re back outside.

“You didn’t know? Hers is the one you were looking at when I found you.”

* * *

For a while, he doesn’t focus on the stranger. After all, he’s only seen her twice.

He’s loved volleyball for much longer.

“Nice spike, Bokkun.” 

“Thanks! Can we do that again?”

The sounds of sneakers running on polished wooden floors, “one more time!”, and the bounce of volleyballs fills the practice arena. It was a ten minute subway ride away from his apartment, a perfect distance in case he wanted to run there instead.

Bokuto abandoned the college route after high school since he was already getting offers from pro teams (and his academics were borderline failing level) and eventually picked MSBY Black Jackals since they were his first offer. Their mascot was pretty cool too.

After going pro, he ditched his former ways of being an ace, especially his tendency to rely on his team to pull him up. If Bokuto still had his old mindset, he would’ve most definitely been kicked out of Black Jackals from a complaint by the starting setter. Atsumu expected—no, demanded—perfection from his spikers, no matter their condition. 

“Tsumu, let me go next,” a tired voice from behind them says. This was Kiyoomi Sakusa, part of the top three that Bokuto just barely missed out on in high school. 

Kiyoomi was still reserved after high school, even with Bokuto’s (pestering) insisting on him to open up more. The two saw each other frequently these days, since they were also on the national team.

“Oh, sure thing. Bokkun, you good now? I know my tosses are amazing, but can’t be hoggin’ too much of me now,” Atsumu replies with his casual smirk.

“No problem, I’ll work on my serves for a bit!” He grabs a Mikasa from the cart, and calls out to their libero. “Wan-san! Mind helping me out with some serve practice?”

“Bo working on his serves? What a rare occasion this is,” the light-hair colored man teases. “Finally decided to do something after getting dug out by those Phoenix guys the other day?”

“We still won though! That’s the important part!”

“I know, I know. I’ll help you out for a bit. Got the FIVB and Asian games this year, right?”

“You know it! Gotta do our best this year!”

Ryujin Nippon, Japan’s national volleyball team.

Bokuto was so excited to get the offer that he held an overnight celebration with just about everybody he knew. A part of him already knew he’d get the spot, but it still felt nice to share that with everybody, since he got the offer a bit late compared to top stars like Kageyama and Ushijima.

Not that he minded. Sort of.

Okay, maybe it was expected that one of the top three high school aces in the nation would get the position before him. But it just meant he had to get stronger.

The international barrier is a tall barrier, to some literally too tall, to overcome. At the last FIVB World Championship, the team didn’t even qualify. Last year’s Olympics was also a bust too. The team ended up losing in quarters, and Bokuto didn’t even get to play much.

This year however, would be different. Bokuto demands more from himself.

Volleyball is his life.

It’s only fair he gives it his all.

“Last 10 minutes, everybody!” the coach calls out.

He grins at the libero, bouncing the ball on the hardwood floor. 

“You ready?”

* * *

“Good work, everybody. You all deserve a well-rested break, so be sure to eat plenty of good food and get some sleep over the break. I’ll see you all again when we return. Don’t go too crazy on the drinks though,” Coach Foster coughs in Bokuto’s general direction, which elicits a small ripple of chuckles. “Alright. Dismissed.”

After changing out of his uniform and a quick shower, he packs up his stuff and exits the practice gym. The sun is still high in the sky, the noon rush on the streets just beginning to start.

“Hmm. What to do today…” he says out loud. Usually practice didn’t end this early, so Bokuto found himself with a lot of extra free time.

_Oh, maybe I should visit my nei-_

“Bo! Over here!” A man with a permanent case of bedhead waves at him in the distance.

Bokuto jogs over to him. “‘Sup, bro?” 

“Turns out the yakiniku place is doing a half off for lunch today, wanna grab a bite?” Kuroo jerks his thumb towards the direction of their favorite restaurant.

Bokuto never turned down a lunch offer, especially one at yakiniku, and even especially at a discount. “Sounds good! Kenma comin’?” 

“Nah, said he’s busy with his channel today.”

“You really landed yourself a big fish, huh? CEO, streamer, college…” Bokuto counts off the achievements with his hand. “What was the other?”

“For the last time, we’re not dating. And stock trading.”

Bokuto waggles his eyebrows at him. “Sure thing, bro.”

* * *

His mouth is salivating as he impatiently eyes the cuts of meat sizzling on the grill, the tantalizing smell entering his nostrils. It had been a while since he went all out and treated himself to some meat. He barely holds himself back from grabbing all the pieces. 

“Bo, please, don’t be hogging all of it.”

“This is a battlefield, Kuroo. Every man for themselves.”

“And I’m paying for most of it, so at least save some for us unlucky foot soldiers.”

“Hey, I said I’d pay you back!” 

The yakiniku place had a long line today, most likely due to the unexpected sale. Bokuto and Kuroo spent ages waiting for their ticket number to be called, and when the waiter finally approached them to guide them to their table, they all but ran over to where they were seated. With a practiced speed, they rattled off their order (which was a lot) to the waiter.

“Isn’t that what you said to your manager in high school? Look how that turned out.” While Kuroo’s leaned back in his chair and taking a sip of water, his cat-like eyes are also warily focused on the grilled meats, now almost perfectly grilled, no doubt scheming a plan to get the first pieces. 

But Bokuto would be ready for whatever sort of plan Kuroo threw at him.

“That was high school, I’m a different man now!” Bokuto’s fist thumps his chest. “Yukippe was surprised when I did pay her back for once! She said something like ‘Oh, Bokuto! You’re really starting to become reliable, huh?’” 

“Right, right, I’m sure she did. Oh, isn’t that the cheerleader you were ogling at a while back at the table behind you?” The bedhead says, peering at a spot behind Bokuto.

“Eh? Where?” Bokuto’s head snaps backwards, scanning the customers. When he couldn’t find her, he turned cautiously back to Kuroo.

The raven-haired man gulps down a bit too late.

Bokuto’s eyes narrow in annoyance. “Wait—did you seriously just pull that trick?”

“Did you seriously fall for it? It’s the only way a man can get some food with you,” Kuroo chuckles, a smug look plastered all over his face.

Bokuto snatches a fair share of meat for his plate before finally taking a bite, sinking his teeth into the juicy and perfectly grilled meat.

“Got any plans later today?” Kuroo asks.

“Hmm… oh! Let’s go to the theater today, Komi’s movie should still be showing!”

How the Fukurodani ex-libero managed to become an actor, Bokuto was still pretty confused about. The guy was doing pretty well too; he hadn’t snagged any leading roles yet, but he received good reviews for a particularly emotional performance as a major side character in an action movie (and it moved Bokuto to tears. he fervently declared after that movie he’d be Komi’s number one supporter).

“Why are you inviting me in like I have the time to watch a movie?”

“You were the one that asked me if I had plans! Aren’t you free too?”

Kuroo sighs. He knew quite well of Bokuto’s tendency to do things with other people rather than be alone, one of his habits that never left him from high school. 

“Fine, fine. But you’re paying for the tickets.”

* * *

The third time and final time he sees the stranger is during the afternoon in the grocery store. Bokuto was in the Shinjuku area visiting Saruki and Konoha over break (the former had grown out his hair to an impossibly bushy length, something Bokuto still found highly amusing).

He’s holding a basket full of nutrition bars and Pocari Sweat to stock up for later. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her in the produce section.

To his excitement, he learned her first name then. 

And to his dismay, spoken by someone else’s mouth. 

(Akaashi, of all people too). 

She’s holding up an unidentifiable vegetable to him, and later puts it in hers—his— _their_ cart.

Bokuto’s never seen Akaashi that happy outside of volleyball before. While his face wasn’t split into a grin, the way the corners of Akaashi’s eyes and lips are just _slightly_ turned upwards, looking at the stranger with a warm twinkle in his eye were more than enough signs for Bokuto to know Akaashi was happy. Really happy.

_They’re just childhood friends, aren’t they?_

But just who exactly were you, to make Akaashi smile like that?

He wants to know.

* * *

For New Year’s, Bokuto also spends it with his friends. He’s never felt much of a need to spend it with his father down in Osaka, especially when there’s much more people he knew in Tokyo.

Bokuto met up with Akaashi (definitely not because Bokuto might’ve gotten lost if he went alone) and headed off to a shrine, meeting Kuroo and Kenma there—the spiker had originally planned on going to Meiji, but Kenma had shot down the idea, complaining about the crowds, then suggested the one on Mt. Takao, which Kenma also shot down, because he didn’t want to climb up a mountain first thing in the morning.

(“It’ll be a great way to start the new year!”

“There’s no way you’re making me exercise.”)

So the Hie shrine in Chiyoda was picked instead.

“Yo, Kurooooo, Kenmaaaaa! Happy New Year!” Bokuto yells, waving his arm to the two men as soon as he spots them in the distance. Akaashi also gives his greetings once they’re closer.

“Happy New Year!” the pair responds, one louder than the other. “Let’s go up then, it’s damn cold,” Kuroo says.

The group heads up the stone stairs, worn down by the soles of shoes to the shrine. Surrounding them are traditional red torii gates that line the path. The cold air of the first day nips at their ears and faces. As expected on the first day of the hatsumode, there were a lot of people jostling their way up and down the shrine’s stairs, but as the four men are relatively tall (asides from Kenma), they manage to not lose each other in the crowd. Tokyo would always be cramped, no matter where one went.

“Say Akaashi, didn’t you have a certain friend of yours with you the other day? Where’d she go?” Bokuto probes.

“Akaashi has a friend that isn’t us?” Kuroo gasps. “And a woman, at that?”

“Yes, I do have other friends that aren’t you, Kuroo-san. We’ve known each other since childhood. She went back to her apartment a couple days ago.”

“Really? That’s a shame,” Bokuto pouts. “Would’ve been nice to invite her along too.”

“Do you really think your neighbor would want to hang out with the person that’s given her numerous headaches over the past couple of months?”

“Did you really have to put it like that?”

“In what other way am I supposed to put it?”

“Hold on a second, this friend is Bokuto’s angry neighbor?” Kuroo butts in. “Now that’s a surprise! Is she cute?”

“Mm… In a way, I guess? It’s the kind of cute that’s chaotic,” Bokuto muses. He’s mostly seen her with the messy hair and heavy eyebags getup, wearing something that was splattered with paint.

(back in Ueno, you’re in your bed mindlessly scrolling on your phone when you suddenly let out a sneeze. _Am I catching a cold?_ )

“Bokuto-san, that doesn’t make any sense,” Akaashi deadpans.

“It does! You just don’t get it!” he argues. “There’s the cute that’s gap moe, the little sister type of cute, the cool and mysterious cute, and the chaotic cute! All of them have their merits! Konoha would agree with me!”

“How much thought you’ve put into this scares me.”

“Kuroo! Help me out here!” Bokuto pleads.

“People like Akaashi just wouldn’t understand, no matter how much you explain it to him,” the bedhead replies, patting Bokuto’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, I also don’t know what it means. Long hair will always reign supreme for me.”

Bokuto freezes up, severely wounded by the betrayal of his best friend.

“Bro… how could you do this to me? Does nobody understand my genius?” Bokuto wails, which causes a good number of people to stare curiously at the Black Jackals spiker.

“Tora probably would, ask him about it,” Kenma says, and the (strange) conversation ends there as the Hie shrine, a quaint one-story temple with a green roof, comes into view. A large crowd is already present, mostly families from grandparents to little kids scattered in front of the courtyard. There were small groups crowding around the statues, some buying amulets, others drawing fortunes. The four make their way to the long line in front of the offerings box.

“Since it’s been a while, we should buy some fortunes!” Bokuto suggests.

“Oh, nice idea! I’m in!” 

“I don’t mind.”

“It’s whatever.”

The line inches forward quickly. Pretty soon, they stand in front of the box with their hands clapped together and eyes closed.

_I want to eat some more yakiniku this year!_

_I want another promotion, please._

_I pray for the continued good health of my family and friends this year._

_I hope my stocks do well._

“So, what’d you guys wish for?” Bokuto immediately asks as they walk over to where the fortunes are sold. A chilly breeze passes through, though the four are now accustomed to the cold.

“Like hell I’m gonna tell you,” Kuroo replies with a smug look on his face.

Without missing a beat, Kenma says, “Probably something money-related.”

“Oi! Actually, how’d you know that?”

“It’s pretty obvious.”

They stand in front of the line for the fortunes, drop in a coin for their offerings and pick out a piece of rolled paper from a wooden container. 

“Oh, I got Future Blessing. What about you guys?” Kuroo asks after unfurling his paper.

“Blessing,” comes Kenma’s reply as he quickly scans his and shoves it into his pocket without a second thought.

“Isn’t that pretty plain?”

“Yours is too. Isn’t future kind of vague?”

“I got Future Blessing too!” Bokuto exclaims, holding up his slip of paper. “Akaashi, what about you?”

Akaashi unrolls his fortune. “Small curse,” he says.

“What exactly is a small curse supposed to be? Are you gonna get mildly inconvenienced for the rest of the year? Wait, did I use that word right…”

“You did. I have no idea what a small curse means either.”

“Wait a second, are you supposed to tie these or bring them with you again…” Bokuto’s eyes scan back and forth between his paper and the ropes for tying the fortunes.

“You bring the good fortunes with you, and the bad fortunes you tie. It’s right there on the sign, did you not read it?” Kuroo says, pointing to the wooden plaque right above the containers.

“Oh! I see! Then Akaashi should tie his, and then we should get some lunch! I’m hungry now!” On cue, his stomach growls loudly.

“Konoha-san and Sarukui-san said they were available to join us for lunch today. We should meet up with them,” Akaashi comments after tying up his slip of paper (a curse was still a curse, even if it was small. He’s usually not one for spiritual things, but it was just in case).

Kuroo pulls out his phone, scrolling through his list of contacts. “Then let me invite Kai and Yaku, he’s back from Russia this year! Makes it balanced and all.”

“We’re not in high school anymore, Kuro,” Kenma sighs.

“No problem with having more people come! It’ll be a big Fukurodani-Nekoma reunion with the third years and two second years!” Bokuto exclaims, pumping his fist up in the air.

The more the merrier, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adult Bokuto is kind of hard to write but (i think) this didn't turn out too shabby. my writing style is kind of evolving as time goes on, which (i think) is a good thing? at the same time it's not v consistent, whoops. will be going through some previous chapters and editing, but nothing plot-affecting will occur. hope you enjoyed reading this little break from your plotline! i promise reader's and bokuto's development will start up again next chapter.


	9. bartenders should be mysterious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What, are you going to serve me a drink or something?”
> 
> “If you’re OK with some Kirin!”
> 
> “Shame, I only drink Sapporo Premium.”

You spend the new year alone in your apartment.

You didn’t see it as sad or pitiful, rather just as another fact of life.

All of the colorful neon lights and merry cheer that permeated the frigid atmosphere just weren’t your thing (and it seemed like the holiday season lasted a week longer as the years passed too). People were always together in some way during this time, whether it be friends, family, or couples (and recently, the number of ads and sales targeted towards couples have been growing steadily too. what was up with that?)

Where was your place in all of it? Sure, you knew a fair amount of people that were still in Tokyo, but you never felt obligated to hang out with them over holidays. Solitude was something you took a lot of comfort in, so you took this time to hibernate for another couple of days and not be bothered by anything or anybody. Your neighbor next door seemed to be out somewhere too, as his place had been silent when you came back from the Akaashis’.

Though as usual, there’s still some errands you take care of.

You had already visited the art store you frequented before break, but thanks to a forgetful memory and things used up faster than anticipated, you went again today.

Shibuya is a thirteen minute ride away on the Hanzomon line, which is where Uematsu is located. The unassuming store carried everything under the sun that an artist could need and is located at a reasonable distance away from where you lived.

As soon as you walk in, a chime signals your arrival and the familiar scent of oils and pastels hits your nose.

“Oh, Sasaki-san! Welcome!” A middle-aged man wearing a blue apron and glasses politely bows at you, carrying a large box in his arms. His face is one etched with a couple of wrinkles around his eyes and mouth and the telltale signs of aging (notably, a receding hairline) were quite apparent, but he never made any attempts to cover it up. _Live and let live,_ he said once. _Besides, all those medications won’t do a damn thing._

“Good afternoon, Takahashi-san,” you nod back.

“I saw your works at the festival the other day—my apologies for not being able to stop by and chat, but they looked gorgeous!” he gushes. “That one with the six figures was particularly impressive.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it.”

“If you need any assistance, though I’m sure you don’t, you know who to ask.” He disappears into the rows of sketchbooks as you grab a basket from the side and head down to the oil paints section.

_I need some magenta and a dioxazine purple. Oh, but that green is really nice._

You could already feel the weight of your wallet decreasing as you added more paint tubes to your basket, barely stopping yourself from grabbing a cerulean blue. The store also carried endless shelves of paint powders for those who liked to mix their paints from scratch, but you never found the appeal. Maybe if you wanted to do a fresco or large mural, you’d pick some up to be like a Renaissance painter. 

Next, you walk over to the pens and markers section, browsing for a new yellow pen. You end up getting another black Micron (you misplaced these a lot), a brown brush pen (which you’ve never owned), a chartreuse marker from the big shelf of Copics (it looked cool), and a new fluorescent pink gelly roll pen (it glows in the dark).

In your defense, they were doing a sale. And you did eventually pick up a yellow pen. 

After selecting a canvas that you actually needed for later, you head over to the checkout line with is thankfully empty. Moments later, Takahashi scurries over.

“Find everything alright?” Takahashi starts scanning your items.

“Mhm. I noticed you’re carrying a larger set of Liquitex acrylics now, didn’t know those were available.”

“They’re in just for a limited time—but you don’t use acrylics, right?”

“Once in a while I do, but the Basics set works just fine for me.”

“Those honestly work well for any level, their vibrancy really is unmatched. Though I suppose the Grumbacht isn’t bad either. Oh, your total will be 3466.80 yen today. Will that be cash or card?”

(the equivalent of two round trip tickets for the cable car on Mt. Moiwa, you distantly remember. you’re not sure which one’s more expensive.)

A part of your soul departs from you as you swipe your card.

* * *

There are some things in life that you can never run away from, no matter how hard you try. 

Sometimes it takes the thing you’re running away from to actually catch up to you for you to realize it.

To you, this catch up occurred in a phone call.

The caller had called you multiple times in the span of four months, but you always avoided it, dreading the conversation that would occur once you did. However, your good morals eventually won out, so you finally caved in and picked up today.

“Hello Mother. Happy late New Year’s.”

“Hello (Name). Happy late New Year’s to you. Have you been doing well?”

“Yeah, I’m getting by.”

Talking to your parents as an adult always feels a little more formal and a little more awkward.

“Did you listen to my voicemails? We really wanted you to come over this year for the holidays, since you missed Obon already. What happened? Is everything alright?” The familiar lilt of the coastal Hokkaido dialect, something you hadn’t heard in a long while, is strongly present on your mother’s barrage of questions.

“Sorry. Things got a bit more busy than I had anticipated.”

In all honesty, you didn’t have a bad relationship with your mother. She was a tough woman that raised you well, dealing with the pressure of being a single mother and having a demanding job alongside it. You’re still not sure how she did it to this day.

But there were many excuses you came up to avoid visiting your family over the breaks, despite it being only a couple hours' plane ride away. Papers and paintings took up more time than you expected. You signed up for some extra shifts over the holidays. There was a gallery exhibit you absolutely couldn’t miss.

You didn’t have anything against the island itself. Hokkaido summers weren’t disgusting and humid and gross. The winters, while having a name for the special type of cold that came with it, were spent with a fireplace and your mother’s special soup curry.

But when you moved out to Tokyo, the distance just seemed like a big wall you didn’t want to overcome.

Besides—

“Daisuke-san was asking about you again. Actually, right now he’s in Tokyo for a meeting, has he contacted you yet? He placed a reservation for dinner tomorrow just for the two of you.”

This man was another reason you tended to avoid going home.

“No, haven’t heard anything from him yet. What part is he in?”

“Somewhere nearby Marunouchi. You’re in Ueno right? Are you far from there?”

“Marunouchi, huh… probably less than a thirty minute subway ride from here. Are you here too?”

Taking the train would cut that time by almost half, but you wanted to drag out the time as much as you could.

“My work’s been holding me up here, unfortunately. Are you going to be busy tomorrow? He said he got a reservation for 6:30 PM, so it wouldn’t be too late when you get back to your apartment. I would like for you to at least talk to him some more, even if the two of you don’t exactly see eye-to-eye. Could you at least make an effort?”

Though, her being a head chef in one of Sapporo’s most famous restaurants meant you were often left alone in the house. You were greeted by plastic-wrapped meals and sticky notes when you woke up, as she left at the crack of dawn and came back well past the sun’s last rays. 

“I’m not making any promises, Mother.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to try, would it? I’ll send you the details of the restaurant, the chef has studied extensively in French cuisine before! Go there for me and take some pictures of your food!”

“Fine then, as long as he’s paying. I have work to do now. Please send my regards to our relatives.”

At the very least, you could mooch off a free luxury meal.

“Alright. Be sure to wear something nice for tomorrow, OK? Say, how’s your graduation show coming along? That’ll be happening soon, won’t it? When’s the date?”

“It’s coming along alright,” you lie. In truth, you still haven’t given much thought about it. "Then, I'm gonna get going now, got some things to work on."

"Don't forget, OK? Goodbye then."

The call ends there and you let out a long exhale. A bit later, you see the restaurant name pop up on your phone screen, a place you’re (unsurprisingly) not familiar with. A Google search reveals that it was located in a Four Seasons hotel.

_That’s some bigshot one, isn’t it? I should probably shower tonight..._

* * *

After your shower, you’re sitting on your chair, staring at the blank pages of your sketchbook. 

In your mind, you’re on a wooden canoe, leaning over and staring deep into the clear, still waters surrounding you.

Your pen’s twirling in your fingers. 

It’s been five minutes. 

You don’t want to name this just yet.

it’s only been five minutes.

Surely you wouldn’t be facing this problem now.

You had a commission request in your inbox from Yamada and a blank form that still needed to be filled out, so you didn’t have the time to be dealing with this problem.

So you don’t name it. A name would make this problem rear its head, a power too great for you to handle.

In the depths of the water, you see a large, gaping hole of pitch darkness, the top of a volcano. Because of how clear the water is, it messes with your depth perception, and you can’t actually tell how close it is.

You do your best to push it down.

Yamada gave you a month for the deadline, which should be ample time for a medium-sized canvas. You could paint this in time. It wasn’t even life-sized, like your six figures piece.

The blank pages of your sketchbook stare back at you.

Your fingers are still twirling your pen.

It’s been six minutes.

* * *

“Hello there, (Name). How are you doing?”

“Good evening, Daisuke-san. Things have been going well. Thank you for inviting me.”

You’re sitting opposite of Daisuke, a tall man with a blank expression on his face, but the type of expression you’d see in a spread of a men’s suit magazine—absolutely devoid of emotion, save for his piercing eyes that were always on alert. He’s wearing a dark gray suit with a black button down and a striped tie not a centimeter out of place, something that severely clashed with your more colorful ensemble.

Quite frankly, you’re not sure of how to act around him either. You didn’t see him much in the first place, and he wasn’t entirely supportive of your art career, but he did agree to pay off some of the tuition. 

“I know the both of us are busy people, but I would still like to chat with you. I got us the _menu degustation_ , feel free to order whatever you like.” He gestures to the menu on the table.

You’re immediately blinded by the courses offered on the laminated paper. The only French words you know that aren’t extremely basic is Rococo and some other art movements, but clearly this was not going to help you today. Even the interior design of the restaurant didn’t have traces of the renowned architectural style of extravagant curlicues and motifs.

As soon as you walked in, you were greeted by a larger-than-life black sculpture of two intertwining feathers in front of a posh bar counter, the type where ordering a bottle of wine would be enough to feed a frugal family of five for dinner with room for dessert. The floor-to-ceiling windows, lined by pillars of wood, provided a great view of Ginza’s night scenery. Colorful, large floral arrangements are placed on the round tables next to the windows. Running down the center of the restaurant are elaborate seating arrangements of rectangular tables and designer sofas with accent pillows propped on them. There were quite a few parties present dressed in sharp clothes, all chatting in hushed, pleasant tones. From a speaker, a dreamy piano’s tune floats by. The waiters in their black ties, crisp shirts, and crease-free pants glided to-and-fro seamlessly, never bumping into anything, well-oiled cogs in a machine.

Whoever designed the restaurant most likely wanted the space to seem larger than it actually was to give the people a sense of comfortable luxury. The earthy, muted neutrals of browns, grays and golds coupled with the occasional splash of color from the flowers gave the place a modern feel and the people who occupied the seats fit perfectly with the atmosphere.

In short, as soon as you walked in, you felt _extremely_ out of place. 

Yamada and Azabu were already bad enough, but this? Everybody seated had an air of high class surrounding them. You had an air of art class. Did you stand out a lot? Were the clothes you picked okay? Were you walking normally? These thoughts circled your head as you walked to where Daisuke was sitting. You checked your fingers once, twice, to make sure there wasn’t any paint you missed when you vigorously scrubbed your hands for five minutes.

The waiter comes around and Daisuke orders first, listing foods with an experienced tongue. You rattle off yours with a good deal of pointing and stumbling.

“I hope business for you is going well? I would love to commission some pieces from you, but unfortunately our ryokan aesthetics are quite particular,” he says after the waiter takes the menus. “Rent in Tokyo is expensive, isn’t it?”

Daisuke is the current owner of a famous _ryokan_ in Hokkaido and has been working to expand to other places, so for him money was a top priority. As he was born and raised in Sapporo (Maruyama of all places, the richest neighborhood), he spoke mostly Standard Japanese.

“Things are fine. I was able to sell some works at my university festival and gain a couple of clients thanks to that.” You take the black napkin neatly folded on the table and smooth it over your lap.

“I see. I’m glad to hear that. You’re in your final year at Geidai, aren’t you? Do you have any plans after you graduate?”

 _Graduation_ was a word you tried shunning away from with the best of your ability. Graduation meant graduation show, meant dealing with the blank form Kimura was now giving you a fiery stare for not filling out, meant being fully set free into the adult world.

“I’m considering continuing my studies for a graduate degree, as I still have a lot to learn.”

“Have you looked at any schools?”

“No, not really; I’ll probably be continuing at Geidai.”

You didn’t see a point in going anywhere else—it was what your grandfather had done, and applying to Geidai’s master program would be much easier—

is what you told yourself, so why hadn’t you applied yet?

“Why don’t you go overseas? A country in Europe, or maybe even the States. Both places would provide far more opportunities, much better than what you’d find here in Japan.”

Daisuke is a very different man from what you remembered of your father, almost the exact opposite in many ways. He spoke like the deafening crashes of waves on a rocky shore, while your father’s words were dandelions lilting in the breeze. The vague memories you have of your father are of him as quiet and gentle, while Daisuke is loud and definite.

(their opposite qualities might’ve been the very reason why your mother married this man.)

He has an opinion on many things. 

And naturally, you have a couple of your own too.

“I don’t see the point in going overseas, especially for my art,” you answer.

“But wouldn’t it be a good chance to improve your skills? What good would it do to stay here? It would just be a waste! You could gain so much more connections over there, to even bigger galleries and competitions, much more than what’s provided here.”

The collar of your blouse chafs uncomfortably against your skin. You tug at it, hoping to relieve some of its tightness against your neck.

“Thank you for your concern, but I decide as to what would be a waste or not to me,” you reply, sipping on the tall glass of ice water. It freezes the tip of your tongue and teeth.

Daisuke’s stern eyes study you over briefly. You stare back levelly.

After what felt like an eternity, lets out a small chuckle.

“My apologies, (Name). We haven’t even talked to each other in such a long time and I’m already rambling off.” He relaxes in his chair and takes a sip from his wine, looking completely at ease in his surroundings.

Even sitting in an extremely plush chair, much more comfortable than the one in your apartment, you still felt constrained. You try to adjust your legs to no avail. “It’s alright. How’s everybody doing back in Hokkaido?” you ask out of courtesy.

“They’re all doing well. Ao-chan misses you a lot.”

“Is that so?" You try your best to sound interested. "She’s a fun kid, must be going through her growth spurt now.”

“Indeed, she might even grow to be taller than you now.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m sure your grandfather would love to see you again.”

You choose not to say anything on that matter.

A different waiter brings over your orders, the aromatic waft of the flavors something your mother would’ve most likely gushed endlessly over about. The food is arranged delicately on the plates with drizzles of sauce dotting the edge and intricate garnishes on the side. You take a picture and then eagerly dig into the dish with Daisuke’s work stories as background noise with the occasional interjection of a couple of “I see’s” and “Oh’s” in places you thought appropriate in the conversation. You knew he was just trying to develop a familial bond, but at this point, you're not sure if that's even necessary. The conversation felt like two actors doing a cold read of a script without any chemistry between the two. If one listened closely enough, they could hear the cold silence laying underneath all the inane chatter. Your eyes wander to the clock on the wall, the second hand ticking away steadily. Or was it even ticking at all? You're not sure anymore.

After discussing about one of his recent trips to Europe—

“(Name), if you do end up wanting to go, we can help with the financial side of things,” he says, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “I also have a couple of connections in Italy and France, if you so wish to study in those countries.”

The food in your mouth now lost all flavor. All you could taste in your mouth were the varying textures of whatever you had ordered—some rubbery, some smooth, some gritty. An odd combination. Some guests take their leave, their evening dresses and perfectly-tailored suits a perfect fit. There was no hesitation in their steps, eyes looking straight forward.

What were you doing here?

“With all respect, Daisuke-san, but I won’t go to Europe, so that wouldn’t be necessary.”

“Shouldn’t you at least give it a try before you decide? I think you’re getting too blinded by what you've done here.”

Your eyes harden ever so slightly. “What do you mean by that?”

“I’ve seen many people get led astray because of a whim they pursue. This is my personal belief, but I still believe art isn’t the best career path in the long run, given how volatile of an industry it is. Going to Europe would help you a lot. I know because of how famous your grandfather was, you may be biased as you’ve had an easier time in the field...”

_Oh. That’s why._

You set your fork down on the plate. All ambience is suddenly hushed and turned to white noise, as if someone had taken a lever and pushed the sound level to the lowest setting.

“I appreciate your words of warning, but I have to take my leave now as I have some things to do for my show,” you cut in quietly, trying to control your tone. “Thank you for the dinner.”

To your relief, he doesn't object. “Oh, already? Have a nice night. Don’t forget to visit us someday.”

You give a slight bow out of politeness to Daisuke and exit the hotel.

* * *

Marunouchi, Tokyo’s business district, is relatively quiet at night. Not very surprising, considering that the famed Ginza nightlife is just a ten minute walk away. Weaving through the salarymen, college students, and everybody in between, the dull pain from your heels reminds you of its presence with every step. Tall buildings rise high up in the sky, so high they touch the clouds.

In a sea of neon colors, unfamiliar faces and flashing signs, you wander alone underneath a dark sky. Up ahead, a swarm of dark-clad businessmen cross the intersection. Salmon swimming upstream, guided by instinct. You arrive at the intersection a second too late; the flashing walking sign now a standstill red. A stream of cars pass by, all going somewhere, all with a destination.

The light turns white. You cross the intersection. The subway station comes into focus and your steps hasten.

(sometimes, the feeling was a bit too much.)

* * *

It’s around nine when you finally arrive back in Ueno at your apartment. Instead of heading straight to your bed, you go to your balcony to take a breather. You're not sure why your feet led you here, but being inside just felt too cramped.

The quiet district is sprawled out in front of you, a break from Marunouchi's neon glory. Only a couple of window lights are still turned on. A waxing moon hangs high in the sky. Tonight, the north star and its friends have disappeared, leaving behind no trace of their whereabouts. A cool breeze nips at your ears but you don’t want to go back inside just yet, wanting to spend some time alone with the night scenery.

However, your solitude lasts for only a brief minute.

“Yo, mind if I join you?” A loud voice says, next to you.

You don’t even turn around to confirm who it is.

The universe had decided to pile on more inevitable confrontations for you and you had no choice but to accept them tonight.

“It’s your balcony.”

He takes it as a yes.

There’s a long, awkward silence between the two of you that’s physically uncomfortable until you let out a long sigh that disappears with the wind.

“Rough night?” Bokuto asks, immediately catching onto it.

“Something like that.”

You’re just a bit too tired, a bit too frayed, to come up with a lie. 

“Wanna talk about it? They say it’s best to let out your troubles to a complete stranger. Let me be your bartender for the night! I’ve always wanted to try being one!” He thumps his fist on his chest.

“What, are you going to serve me a drink or something?”

“If you’re OK with some Kirin!”

“Shame, I only drink Sapporo Premium.”

The gesture felt a bit too friendly for your tastes—two people sharing a beer in the night. While you didn’t hate the man next to you, you still aren’t completely on board the “Be Friends With Your Neighbor” train as Akaashi had suggested. If anything, you’re still considering whether to buy a ticket or not.

“Wow, that’s specific! My apologies, our bar currently doesn’t have that in stock...”

“You’re gonna go out of business then, if you can’t serve your customers." You rest your elbows on the balcony railing. "Are you sure you thought through this whole bar thing well?”

Bokuto lets out a chuckle. “That would be a problem, considering it’s been the first day! Then, maybe just talking instead?”

“Not really much to say," you reply, scuffing your slipper on the ground. "Just some family squabbling earlier."

“Your outfit seems pretty well put together, did you go out to some fancy place with them?”

You glance down at your clothes, which you forgot to change out of. “Oh. Yeah, I did. The guy my mother’s remarried to runs a ryokan, so he’s pretty well off.”

“A ryokan! That’s cool! Is it in Tokyo?”

“Nah. Up in Hokkaido, it’s where I’m from.”

“Hokkaido?" His tone brightens immediately. "So that’s why you like Sapporo Premium? Oh, and that’s where your dialect comes from then!”

“Dialect?” 

“Yeah, but it only pops up when you’re angry, I think!”

You could only blink in response.

“Huh," is all that comes out.

You somehow did not know that about yourself.

Then again, you're not sure if you ever got _that_ angry before at someone.

“Did you have a fight with your family?” he asks with a softer tone.

“Nah, nothing that dramatic. Me and that old man just have a couple different points of views when it comes to my future,” you answer lightly, not exactly wanting to spill out the whole can of worms all in an instant. “It’s strange. It was like holding up a mirror to myself.”

Your dislike towards the man wasn’t because of your differences with him, but rather the one similarity that the two of you shared.

He saw art as just a career path. You hated how it sounded from his mouth, even though you said the same thing to the man next to you.

Why was that?

Deep down, you knew. It was his general distate for the subject—everybody who didn't pursue an art-related career always had something to say about it being too risky or turbulent.

Who's to say any other career wasn't?

Sure, there might be more security if you went into another field, but no route ever guaranteed success. Luck, timing, chance—these were all factors that made people think art isn't easy to succeed in. But who's to say those three things were the sole determiners of one's career? The farmer that waited for another rabbit to come the next day waited for an eternity, complacent on luck. With your own hands, you created your own opportunities, dreams wrought into a reality that only some could see. And maybe that was because of luck, timing, or chance, or a combination of all three, but the countless of hours you spent over canvasses and pieces of paper—that couldn't be cast aside.

Daisuke had said your grandfather's name helped you. So what if it did? The name Sasaki Hideo was both a curse and a blessing you carried. People said successful artists have a special something in them. Some cried out natural talent, others cried out privilege. You're not sure what to cry out, considering your passion was just embers in a fireplace. Truthfully, you're not sure what's left in there.

You wouldn't call yourself the most confident person on the earth, but hell, the _something_ you possessed had to be worth at least a view of Ueno on a balcony, all through your own efforts. Your own name might not be so big, but there was at least _something_ to it. 

You were not— _could not_ —take the shit of some middle-aged man criticizing your life when he entered the stage so late, not when you had given up the majority of your life to reach here.

"But, you know," you continue, mindlessly tapping your fingernails on the cold metal of the railing. "Because of that, I guess it made me see myself more clearly."

So yeah, you were going to stay in Japan.

An inexplicable feeling burns in your veins, something that you can't quite put into words and aren’t exactly comfortable sharing with the Next Door Neighbor. Luckily, your neighbor seemed to have gotten the silent signal and doesn't press any further.

“My old man also has a pretty different view on what he wants me to do in the future,” Bokuto begins, a hint of nostalgia in his voice.

You say nothing, a silent gesture of acceptance for him to continue.

“He originally didn’t mind me picking up volleyball but thought it was a pretty strange choice. Of all sports, volleyball? Most kids were playing baseball or soccer, but I saw a volleyball match one day on TV, at the moment when a spiker jumped up and hit the ball with amazing force, and I thought, 'That looks super cool! I want to do that!’”

“And thus began the journey of Bokuto Koutarou’s volleyball career,” you reply, mimicking a narrator’s voice.

“Pretty much, yeah! I joined the local volleyball team as soon as I could, and the sport stuck with me ever since. The old man probably thought that it would help get rid of all the energy that I have, but I got even more energetic because of it! But once I graduated high school, he wanted me to go into business. Something about it being a stable job. Got a pretty big shock when I told her I already accepted a pro league’s offer!

“He then said stuff about how Japan would never make it big on the international stage, so what was the point? But I didn’t play volleyball for the accomplishments or the medals. Don’t get me wrong, they are pretty nice, but the main reason why I play is because volleyball is fun." Bokuto pauses for a second, looking to somewhere in the distance.

"It’s fun to spike every ball with your full power. It’s fun to win every game. So I’ll always try to have fun.”

A smile forms on his face—not as big as his grins, but still genuine. You knew Bokuto was speaking from years of experience, despite how simple his reasoning sounded.

“What about your mother?”

For a brief moment, his smile drops. “She left when I was a kid. Never heard back from her since.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

_Oh fuck. Was that question too inconsiderate?_

“Don’t mind! I don’t have much memories of her in the first place. My dad did a more than good job at raising me, and I know he’s just worried for me. I’m not book-smart at all, and anything math related just makes my mind go blank. But we still keep in touch from time to time. He moved down to Osaka, doing pretty well now.” His smile returns.

Bokuto Koutarou was a strange man, you realized. Or perhaps all extroverts are like that; willing to share just about anything in the open. Either way, it wasn’t something you’re quite used to.

And the two of you are more common than you originally thought. It was frightening. Another silence passes, but it’s more subdued this time. Faintly, the sounds of cars and the trees rustling fills the air.

“Tell me about volleyball,” you decide to say.

“Sure thing! Let’s see here, since you know Akaashi too…”

Bokuto goes on rambling about his current V. League team, how he was on the same team with Akaashi back in high school, how he played on Japan’s National team (which you genuinely thought was a pretty amazing achievement) and how _he,_ who wore the #4 jersey with pride, was the sole ace—

You finally turn your head to face Bokuto, who's wearing his owl-printed pajamas. “Ace? What’s that?” you ask, furrowing your brow. If you remembered correctly, Azumane mentioned he played that position, but you forgot what it meant.

He puffs out his chest, as if he’d been preparing for this speech for a long time now.

“I’m glad you asked! The ace is the coolest position on the court! There are three absolute rules that an ace must follow! This is called the Way of the Ace!”

A finger raises. “One! Your back must be an inspiration to his teammates!”

Another finger. “Two! Smash every wall in your way!”

A third. “And three! Every ball should be hit with your utmost ability! To be an ace is to have your teammates rely on you, no matter what situation you’re in! The ace is the strongest on the team!”

He grins at you, but this time, his golden eyes take on a predatorial-like glint, not unlike the look he gave you the first time the two of you talked on the balcony. You unconsciously flinch. _He’s one of the most inspiring people I’ve met,_ floats into your mind.

And Akaashi was right; Bokuto Koutarou was a strange man, but in its strangeness was an electrifying quality, just a tiny bit infectious.

A strong pull from somewhere in the universe forces you to answer back with the _something_ you had.

“Hey!” Out of nowhere, you stomp your foot as hard as you can on your balcony floor. “Alright! That’s the special foot stomp technique to get on track again!” 

He clenches his hands together, eyes lighting up. “Ooh! Do you practice kenpo?”

“No, don’t take the word of an artist so seriously!” You turn to leave, but before you do—

“The name’s Sasaki (Name), by the way. Sorry for blowing up the first two times we’ve talked. I’ve got some things to do now, but it was nice talking to you, Bokuto-san. Don’t stay up too late.”

The last part you added mostly out of courtesy, but the rest of it held a grain of truth.

“Nice to meet you, Sasaki-san! And I’m sorry too, for all the noise I’ve caused before. See you next time!” he replies, and you could already visualize his beaming face in your mind.

You hold your hand up in a goodbye gesture and the balcony door slides shut with a soft thud.

A half-smile forms on your lips.

_Since when did we decide there was gonna be a next time?_

* * *

Akaashi’s day had been extremely tiring, so much that he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep that night. Even the sounds of construction nearby couldn’t get him to wake—it took his fourth alarm ring for him to finally register the blaring sound, and then a fifth one for him to open his eyes.

He rolls out of bed, fumbles around for his glasses on the nightstand, and checks his phone. 

_Sasaki (Name), 7 missed calls._

_Shit_ , he panics, and before he’s even had the time to register, his finger hits the call button.

The phone rings a couple times before you pick up. “Hey, what’s up?” You unsuccessfully hide a large yawn.

“You called me last night, and I just wanted to make sure things are OK.”

“Oh… right, I did. Don’t worry, everything’s fine now,” you reply, a tad bit too fast for his liking. “Sorry, class is starting now. Catch you later!”

“Goodbye,” he manages, and you hang up without another word.

_What did I miss?_

The sound of the dead line rings in his ears as he gets ready for his day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time for the Familial Issues episode! [here](https://www.fourseasons.com/tokyo/dining/restaurants/motif_restaurant_and_bar/) is the restaurant you went with Daisuke, my description does not do this place justice. 
> 
> reader's finally getting somewhere w/bokuto! coming up: somebody who's been namedropped makes his appearance...


	10. dance 'til the music stops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good night, Sasaki.” The door closes shut softly behind him.
> 
> Without another word, he had understood everything that you wanted to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to preface: the character in here follows a slightly different plotline compared to the time skip b/c i wrote him in before that chapter dropped. hope y'all don't mind.

Motivation comes to you in spikes.

At least, that’s what you liked to think. That had to be the reason why you pushed away Yamada’s request for a week.

Your first class of the day is in the studio, where students are given time to work on assignments for other classes or on personal work. Since there’s a limited number of studios, most are shared with a couple people. Some people chose this time to catch up on sleep, as the teacher was pretty lenient, but you and Tachibana usually spent the time working.

“Hey, have you ever been to Fruit Parlor Fukunaga in Shinjuku?” The now-purple haired woman asks, examining one of her latest pieces.

“You know I don’t even know what’s outside my apartment,” you reply, eyes fixated on your painting. Truthfully, you aren’t very focused on it, as you’re reapplying the same color to the same spot over and over again without much thought. You just weren’t motivated, that had to be the reason why. “Oh, asides from Uematsu and the convenience store, I guess.”

“You should go there, they have nice fruit parfaits!” She picks up a large flat brush and dips it in bright yellow paint.

“But don’t the places you go to have some weird theme?” You continue to go over the muted hazel section with a tiny brush. You’re starting to hate the color. “Like that one Alice in Wonderland one.”

“Not all the time! I promise you this place will one hundred percent match your taste, OK? Trust me on this!” She looks up from her painting and pouts, her eyes (contact-less today) wide.

Tachibana’s special move—Tachibana Puppy Face. It’s extremely effective.

“Fine, fine, I’ll go,” you sigh, raising your hands in defeat. “I’ll take a picture for you when I do, okay? Would you like a website update along with that too? ‘Sasaki’s Food Travels: First and Final Episode, Fruit Parlor Fukunaga’.”

“Yay, thank you!” she beams, and an arrow audibly pierces through your heart. “Are you doing alright though? You seem kind of spacey today. Haven’t you been working on that same spot for the past twenty minutes?”

You brush her concern away breezily. “Still a bit tired from last night, you know how it is.”

In truth, you immediately fell asleep on your bed after your conversation with Bokuto, despite your foot stomp and all.

She hums, deciding not to push it. “By the way, I finished my application to the academy over the break.”

Tachibana had ultimately decided on applying to somewhere in Milan as her top choice. You’d miss the woman greatly, but her dreams were somewhere larger than here.

“Really? Congratulations, I’m sure you’ll get in! If you don’t, I’ll arrange them a new set of intestines!” You grip your fist tightly.

“The way you say that makes it sound like you actually will, but thank you! Do you have any plans for after graduation?”

Your conversation with Daisuke comes back to you, the taste of last night’s dinner still in your mouth.

“I’m thinking about being a monk,” you declare proudly with a flick of your brush. “Maybe somewhere down in Kyoto. Or should I go up to Iwate instead?” 

“Exactly where did that thought come from… but, you’re not really serious on that one, are you?” asks Tachibana, an eyebrow raised.

You pause mid-flick.

“Well… I don’t know, honestly. I’m not really sure whether or not I want to do graduate school,” you confess, setting down your brush.

“You know you don’t have to, if you don’t feel like it,” she replies gently. “I really do think your work is amazing. It’s got a quality that draws people in, even if you sometimes don’t think so.”

Before you can give your heapings of gratitude towards the woman—

“Excuse me! Can I come in?” A soft knock on the studio door interrupts the conversation.

“Go ahead, it’s unlocked!” you call out.

The door swings open to reveal Azumane. “Sorry for my intrusion! I was wondering if any of you guys would like to give me some feedback on something I’m working on right now? Ah, but if you’re working on something important, please don't mind me,” he asks softly, a hand behind his neck.

“Oh, I’ll come over!” Tachibana exclaims, immediately setting down her brush.

You didn’t have much else to do, so you tag along with them.

Azumane leads you down the hallway until reaching the second-to-last door on the right and opens it. His studio is a solo one, so it’s a bit smaller than the one you shared with Tachibana, but still had plenty of space for the fashion designer. Piles of cloth and fabrics of varying textures are scattered across the floor. Next to the window is a small desk with a sewing machine, a large box with spools of thread, scrap fabrics, and loose sheets of paper with blueprints sketched on it. On the walls, various photos and drawings are taped up.

The highlight is of course, the three dress forms in the center of his studio. Currently, three large pieces of fabric are each draped onto them.

“I hand-painted the designs on these fabrics since I wanted to try new, and since the two of you are really amazing painters, I wanted your thoughts on them,” he explains, a slight tinge of embarrassment in his tone. “Feel free to move them around, the draping’s not set yet and the paint’s already dry.”

You start with the left one, a cream-toned fabric with calligraphic strokes running across it. “What was the plan with this one?”

“I wanted to simulate a traditional painting, but on a more abstracted level.”

“You should consider using different line thicknesses and taper your edges to make it stand out more. But I really like how this is positioned on the fabric.” You stretch the linen in your hand. “It would be cool to see this once you’ve done the draping.”

“What about this one?” Tachibana asks, holding up a lavender piece with gold detailing and large flowers trailing down from the center.

“That was done with a baroque approach in mind. I wanted that to be elegant but colorful.”

“Hmm…” she pauses, closely examining the details. “You need more depth in these flowers, or just make them flat. Right now, it’s in a weird mix between the two.” Her voice loses its usual mild quality, gaining a hardened edge. Paint-smudged fingers lightly trace the gold curlicues. 

“I’m not really a fan of the gold you use here, it seems too yellow and not an actual gold. I can understand you’re trying to go for colorful, but if you’re going for elegant too, it doesn’t fit well with the lavender fabric you used.

“Finally, I can understand with the fabric Sacchi’s holding why you’d hand-paint it, since it’s asymmetric, but you need to do something with this one that makes the hand-painting justified, it just feels like a pattern right now.” Tachibana finishes her assessment, giving the fabric a last once-over. “But I really like the idea! I’ll be on the lookout for this once the graduation show comes around!”

He blinks his eyes a couple times, before regaining his composure. “Wow, I wasn’t expecting you to be this detailed with it… But I appreciate your thoughts a lot! I’ll take both of your ideas into consideration!”

“Were you shocked? Tachibana over here’s always been pretty serious when it comes to anything art-related, no matter who it is,” you say with a corner of your mouth quirked up. “Sometimes makes me wonder what she’d be like if she acted like that around people.”

The woman shakes her hands furiously. “I’m just being honest here! Seeing Azumane over here taking the time and going out of his comfort zone to try something new really makes me excited!” she exclaims, quickly reverting back to her usual cheer.

“What are you doing with the one in the center?” you ask, nodding your head to the piece of black fabric on the dress form.

“I’m leaving it blank,” he responds, walking over to it. “I’m going to work on the draping for this today.”

“Oh, can we watch? I think it’ll be a nice break for us,” Tachibana asks, but she’s smiling a bit too pointedly at you.

“I should go, I don’t exactly—”

“You should definitely stay, Sacchi!” She grabs your wrist and practically forces you to sit down on the floor. “Do you mind, Azumane?”

He shakes his head. “No, make yourselves comfortable. Sorry I don’t have much to offer around here.”

“You’re all good!” Tachibana’s hand still hasn’t left your wrist. You hadn’t known that woman had such firm strength. “Don’t mind us!”

From his desk, he grabs a box of pins, a sheet of paper with the blueprint of the dress, a spool of thread, and a needle. He takes a seat at his stool, sets everything down, and ties his hair back loosely. With one eye closed, Azumane’s hands thread through the tiny needle in one go.

You weren’t that close with Azumane, only ever seeing him in school, but he transformed into a completely different person—gone was his usual soft demeanor, replaced by a sternness you didn’t even know the man could express. His eyes are focused on solely what’s in front of him and his fingers fly by on the fabric. He works methodically and efficiently, using zero wasted movement in his actions, all connecting with the last; smooth as a river, each poke deliberate and planned out.

Azumane knew coming to Geidai he had his work cut out for him and worked tirelessly over the years to get to his current position—his official debut in the fashion world is in a month.

This was a man who knew what he was doing, confident in his skills.

And now you know why Sugawara had said he was imposing on the volleyball court.

Watching him work made you want to do something. Your hand free of Tachibana’s grab twitches unconsciously. What were you doing, sitting on the floor of somebody’s studio?

People around you were doing new things, things that would elevate them to new levels, things that would take them to new heights. You snuck a glance to your friend’s face, and she had that _look_ on her face, the one where she was struck by inspiration and was thinking of a million different things to express. You too, wanted to do something new.

But where would you even start?

You don’t know.

* * *

There’s a good number of reasons why you hate Sugawara Koushi. 

A former part-time tea shop worker studying for his education degree, you had once asked him whether their store could stock a particular brand of tea you enjoyed, which happened to be his favorite too. The two of you became friends from there, and when there was nobody in the shop he’d come over to your table and strike up a conversation. Since he had good taste, you humored his talks, eventually growing closer with him, until he ended up coming over to your apartment to drop off tea when he quit the job (he kept in touch with the owner).

Sugawara possessed a fairy-like facial structure with his brown eyes, delicate lashes like spider threads, and fair skin that was wrinkle-free, despite his gray hair (he claimed it was genetic, you had other theories), so you’d often ask for him to do some poses for your sketches, which he readily agreed to. The mole underneath his right eye added to his charm, making him like the modern-day version of Diarmuid Ua Duibhne. If you weren’t careful, you could’ve fallen in love with how handsome the man was.

So how could you come to hate this man, a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day?

As soon as you arrive back at your apartment, you check your phone for any recent notifications. A notification that “tea boy” has sent you a message pops up on the screen. 

**tea boy**

_Is today an OK today to stop by? (3:47)_

_sure, come by whenever (18:23)_

_Alright, I’ll be there in 30 minutes. See you then!^^ (19:37)_

At exactly 8 PM, you hear a soft knock on your door.

“Sasaki, good evening. As always—” Sugawara, wearing a casual cream button-down with a black jacket, a light-blue muffler, and dark blue jeans greets you when you open the door, handing you a plastic bag. “Your tea.”

“Thank you very much for your service,” you exaggeratedly bow, hand him the money, and take the bag. Inside, you see the familiar packaging of the brand. “I’ll go make a pot right now.”

“You know you don’t have to—”

“You end up staying, even if I don’t want you to. You’re free anyways, right? Paintings on the couch are dry, you can move ‘em.” You head over to the kitchen and set a pot of water to boil.

He takes a seat at your couch, carefully setting aside the paintings and unwraps his muffler around his neck. “Anything new with you?”

“Eh. Same old. Oh, I had dinner with Daisuke-san the other day. Apparently the chef there studied in French cuisine, but it didn’t really seem Frenchy to me.”

Sugawara learned a lot about you that you didn’t realize he did in a short amount of time—perhaps you did fall prey to his love spot and he hypnotized you into spilling out your life story for him one day at the tea shop and never told you. Sometimes you wonder if it was okay to befriend this man.

“Really? You haven’t seen your family in a while, haven’t you? How’d it go?”

“Food was good. He was being the same stubborn man as usual. In a way, kind of like yourself.”

“That was low.”

“Sorry. But other than that, the neighbor’s been quiet recently. Finally get some peace and quiet around here.” You stretch your arms in front of you, waiting for the kettle to whistle.

“Your neighbor’s Bokuto Koutarou, right? He was one crazy fellow in high school.” A wistful twinkle appears in the ex-setter’s eyes, most likely reliving the memories of his high school volleyball days. “But it was fun watching him play! It felt like the whole arena was cheering him on at some points!”

“That so? He’s not bothering me anymore, so I guess he’s fine now. Can work without headaches now.”

It had been strangely quiet for the past months, something you were pleasantly surprised at. Perhaps that’s why you were (albeit with some prodding) able to forgive your neighbor in the end.

“You’re not overworking yourself again, are you?” He shoots you a stern glare, though his warm brown eyes only show concern.

“I know my limits, _Mother._ No need to worry about me,” you huff. “I’ve gotten four hours of sleep max, that’s a new record. I feel like a reborn woman!”

“You’re really… you know you should be getting at least seven, right?”

“Seven? Like seven Dragon Balls? That’s impossible.”

“You’re the one that’s impossible here.”

A wry smile quirks up on your lips. “And? Anything new with you lately?”

“Hmm… not much new, honestly. I’m thinking of moving somewhere back up in Miyagi once I graduate.” Sugawara leans back on the couch, hands behind his neck. “Well, you know how it is. Just gotta get my bachelor’s, then take all those exams for the license, then maybe get a job.”

Despite Sugawara’s somewhat timid nature, he, just like Azumane knew what he would be doing in his life. It was a vague plan, not entirely filled out, nor without a set timeline, but he was aiming for something. With his casual tone, it made the whole ordeal sound like a cakewalk even though it was anything but.

“That sounds like a lot... Isn’t there an excess of teachers in Japan right now?”

“You didn’t need to remind me of that,” he groans, putting his hands in his face.

“Sorry, sorry. I think you’ll do just fine though. You have that appearance that just says ‘teacher’!” you exclaim, pumping your fist in the air. “I’d trust you with my kids if I ever had any! I think!”

“Thank you, I suppose,” he chuckles lightly. “Oh, by the way, I went to your exhibition for the festival and it was really amazing! How’s art going?”

You deflect, choosing to focus on the metallic gleam on the kettle. “Ah, well.”

“Exactly what is that supposed to mean?” He presses forward, a tint of exasperation present in his tone.

You briefly wondered how long you could evade him this time. “You know, same old situation.”

“Sasaki, if you knew I was going to stay here for a bit, don’t give me these kinds of answers.”

The kettle whistles.

Reason #1 you hated him: His incessant stubbornness.

Sugawara was the nagging mother, the one who had her hair up in rollers every morning and enforced a strict matriarchy in her household. Their stubbornness was not to be underestimated, because they just couldn’t be swayed by anything. You often wondered just what made Sugawara develop this quality, and he responded with “four volleyball idiots back in high school” with a gentle yet cold smile.

You turn off the stove and pour the water into the mugs, watching the leaves float up to the top. “And I said I don’t want you staying over even though you always insist,” you retort as you walk over to the couch, handing him his mug, which he accepts graciously.

You take a seat at your desk. Immovable object: one point; you: zero.

“I really can’t say much about it. Same old routine as always. You know how it is.” You sip on your tea, muscles relaxing at the familiar taste.

“You need change!” Sugawara announces out of the blue, his brown eyes like cocoa sparkling, making you jump a bit.

“Now you’re not making sense, and that’s coming from somebody like me.”

“I’m saying, you need to change up your routine. Without change, you’ll just stay in the same place forever. That’s what our old volleyball coach said too. Isn’t being stagnant the worst thing for an artist?”

“Suga, please. Exactly what am I supposed to change?”

“For starters, you could get out of this apar—”

“Absolutely not.”

“I didn’t even finish!”

“I know what you’re gonna say.”

He crosses his arms with a small harrumph and turns away from you. “Sasaki, that’s timeout for you!”

Reason #2: His teacher mode. This pissed you off a lot, since nothing could get him out of it.

“And why?” you ask, not looking forward to where this conversation was heading.

“Don’t interrupt me! As I was saying, you could consider getting out of this place more. You’re always surrounded by your works, aren’t you? Sometimes you need to just take a break from what you’re doing,” he replies.

In a way, he was right. Though you didn’t want to admit that just yet, because you hated seeing his ‘I told you so’ face.

“But I already go out to take classes and shop around, so how am I supposed to go out more?”

“Sasaki, you’re in timeout, so no talking! But good of you to ask a question! Keep it up. I’m not suggesting you go out clubbing, but just step outside for a bit. When you go out, you’re still reminded of art somehow, aren’t you? Try going somewhere without any sign of it.” Sugawara looks around your apartment, scanning for potential places.

“Like... there, your balcony! That’s a good place!” His pale finger points at the glass door.

“I’ve been there already.”

“Exactly how many times?”

You pause, brows knitting in thought. “Er… three or four, maybe?”

He suddenly whips around to face you, his angel features twisted into a weird expression. “You’ve been out there only three or four times? You should properly enjoy your balcony space. Some people aren’t afforded that luxury! Must be nice, getting a great view of Ueno! Think about the ones stuck in the dorms here!”

You hold your hands up in exasperation. “Sorry. Due to unforeseen circumstances I was unable to go out there as much as I had intended. Please forgive me.”

“Alright! I’ve decided! You’re going to spend some more time on the balcony today! Bring your laptop too!” He stands up and strides over to your balcony, a sunny smile returning on his face. 

You have no choice but to follow.

Reason #3: Your inability to turn him down.

* * *

“Suga. Can we not.”

“Aw, come on! I promise it’ll be fun!”

“Your ideas of fun aren’t fun for me.”

You stand stiff on your balcony, the cold night air nipping at your ears. Sugawara has taken your laptop hostage and is currently typing on the keyboard. He turns around, giving you a refreshing smile. “Did you not hear me right?”

You stay silent.

“This one should be good…” He presses a button, and the first few notes of an electric guitar play out. 

“Now, come on!” Sugawara starts swaying back and forth, a tall reed in the wind.

You’re still standing as straight as a board. “I don’t dance.”

“Neither do I! But this is a nice change that you need. Sometimes you gotta move your feet and loosen up a bit to get somewhere.”

“The neighbors will hear and see us.”

“Who cares about that? We’re just having some fun! Just one song, and I won’t push you for more, OK?”

Usually Sugawara was a little less on the wild side, but it seemed he’s set on doing this. And there was no way for you to convince him otherwise. You grudgingly start mirroring Sugawara’s movements, albeit to a less expressive extent.

“ _If you wanna dance_

_Tonight~”_

Sugawara picks up the pace to accompany the quickened beat and you almost trip. Luckily, he catches you before you could face-plant onto the cold concrete.

“Here, just look at my feet and follow me.” He takes your hands, his slender fingers wrapping around yours, still holding remnants of warmth from the tea mug. You look down and do your best to follow, but you still end up tripping over his feet.

“Just relax! Don’t fight the music,” he says, his soft tone lilting above the song.

“I’m trying to fight you here,” you mutter, intentionally stepping on his foot.

“I’m just going to pretend that was you missing a step.”

“Sorry.”

A cool wind brushes past the two of you. Sugawara’s steps start getting more and more energetic and you manage to not step on his toes every five seconds

“That’s it! Now, I’m going to release your hands soon but keep dancing, please!”

“Wait, what?”

Soon, a trumpet solo starts, and Sugawara lets go of his fingers from yours, gracefully doing a shuffle. Like a newborn lamb, you gracefully stumble around, a desperate attempt to follow the mother sheep’s example. And what are your arms supposed to do, now Sugawara-free?

“Don’t think too much. Feel the music with your body!” He chuckles at your flailings.

“Exactly who do you take me as?”

As Kadomatsu Toshiki’s voice starts singing again, Sugawara again takes your hands.

“ _If you wanna do it baby_

_Love me tonight~”_

“You should seriously be dancing with Sawayama–or was it Sotomura-san? If you’d pull this off with him, I’m sure you two will—”

“Not now, Sasaki. And it’s Sawamura, Sawamura Daichi.”

Before you noticed, the song fades away and your hands separate again. You’re somewhat panting (you upheld the stereotype of artists not being physically active to the line), while Sugawara shows no sign of fatigue, his porcelain skin and wispy gray hairs sweat-free.

“That was fun, wasn’t it? Wanna do another song?”

He doesn’t even give you time to reply as the next one starts playing, this time a bass drum starting off, much slower than the last song.

“Do I have even a choice here? Are you a monarchy? Where’s my say in the proceedings?”

“No, but aren’t you enjoying yourself? Come on, you’ll miss Mariya’s voice!” Without another word, his hands are on your shoulders and his feet start a shuffle.

“ _B_ _aby baby don’t look so sad_

_There’s gonna be a better tomorrow~”_

And Reason #4 of why you hated him: How painfully accurate he could be.

Because a small part of you did indeed enjoy this, much to your chagrin.

You found yourself slowly becoming more confident in your (wild swinging motions) dancing as the music goes on, eventually not even unintentionally stepping on Sugawara’s toes. The night air’s chilliness is long forgotten as the two of you spin around on the balcony, the north star a disco ball. At one point during Bay City’s solo, you take the initiative of releasing Sugawara and dance on your own, to his enthusiasm. For the very last song, you don’t even hold his hands anymore as you’re carried by an unprecedented burst of adrenaline in your veins.

And you could see it in Sugawara’s face whenever he came close—the somewhat swollen eyes, eyebags heavier than usual, that he, too, needed a break. Knowing someone went both ways, after all. In a way, Sugawara was similar to you, never outright revealing what he thought (though in his case, he was always putting the needs of others before his own). The two of you would never say what you meant outright, but there was no need to.

You crack a smile on your lips as you twirl, almost bumping into the left side of the railing. He chuckles, pulling you back in, then almost crashes into the balcony door himself, which you couldn’t help but grin at.

“Getting a little tired there, aren’t we?” you tease, going into a side shuffle.

“Dealing with somebody like you makes me more tired than usual,” he shoots back, also grinning.

Tonight was just a clumsy and amateurish dance for the two of you, a wordless conversation of comfort to a new tomorrow.

_“Flying boogie dance_

_Goodbye boogie dance_

_I love you~”_

By the time the song finishes, the adrenaline disappears and you’re heavily panting, out of breath. You slump on your balcony railing as Sugawara, ever the cheerful one, pats your back, still not showing signs of fatigue.

“See, that wasn’t too bad!” he beams. The tiny beads of sweat glistening on his forehead and his cheeks flushed with a rosy tinge only added to his angelic appearance. You pray your face isn’t beet red.

Your shoulders rise and fall exaggeratedly. “Only once in a while though.” You gasp for more breaths of oxygen. “I don’t want to be painfully reminded of how out of shape I am every day.”

“Your endurance will build up if you do it daily though!”

“I don’t have the time for that.”

“Negative Sasaki is back again! And after all of my efforts…”

“Oh, be quiet.” Another gasp. “You know I only tolerate you because of your tea. The day you stop bringing those leaves is the day our relationship ends.”

“If you say so, Your Majesty.”

* * *

Speaking of tea, the cups you had brewed earlier have now gone cold. Sugawara pours his cup into his thermos (another testament that proves he always stayed to chat) to save for later and puts on his jacket. Because you were going to try and work, you decided to not see him out.

He’s tying his shoelaces at the genkan. You’re sitting at your desk, sketchbook pulled out. 

“Well, I’ll catch you around then.” Sugawara wraps his light blue muffler around his neck and pats his pockets, making sure nothing is gone.

“You know you sometimes seriously piss me off,” you reply, though there’s not much malice in your tone.

“Like I said, you just need some change in your life.” He turns the doorknob. “Didn’t you say you’re fine with your neighbor now? Maybe he can help you with that.”

“Yeah, as if,” you drily chuckle. “Thanks for the tea, as always. And the dance I guess. And…” your voice uncharacteristically dies in your throat.

Sugawara raises a hand and gives you a quiet smile. “Good night, Sasaki.” The door closes shut softly behind him.

Without another word, he had understood everything that you wanted to say.

The apartment’s silent again. Maybe a bit too silent for your liking.

* * *

Once Bokuto Koutarou became an ordinary ace, he discarded all of his unnecessary emotions that led to the infamous Mood Swings during matches.

However—that did not mean Bokuto Koutarou, human being, discarded all of his emotions.

He had made significant progress in getting to know you the other night, but since then, you’ve never shown your face on the balcony again.

But then! When he returns back to his apartment after a particularly grueling day of practice, he hears a couple of notes from one of his favorite songs outside, beckoning him to come and listen. Without a second thought, he immediately rushes over to the balcony to identify who had such immaculate and perfect taste.

Citypop happened to be one of his treasured genres of music, something he had picked up during high school on the radio one day, and ever since then, his phone held a long, continuously updated playlist for the genre. It was fun working out with Takanaka Masayoshi rapping or Anri crooning in his ears. When Coach Foster let them request songs during free practice, Bokuto would always queue up his playlist to be blasted in the practice gym, sometimes loudly singing the lyrics with Atsumu and Shion and even got the English-speaking players on the team bumping to some songs.

(he’d get Kiyoomi someday—Bokuto’s _definitely_ seen that man tap his foot to Yamashita Tatsuro, he’d bet his ‘way of the ace’ shirt on it.)

And of course, it was even more fun dancing to said genre.

He doesn’t even have to look far. A quick peek outside reveals you (finally!) on your balcony. 

Only you’re not alone. 

You’re dancing with a slender, gray-haired man—Sugawara Koushi, from the depths of his brain—while Takeuchi Mariya plays in the background. Her siren voice almost makes Bokuto go outside too, but he feels like he’s intruding on a really intimate moment between you two; if he did go out, he’d crash his ship onto the rocks. While your movements are awkward and rigid, Sugawara guides you across the balcony floor with ease, hands intertwined in yours.

(but of all people, again? is the next person to show up with you going to be atsumu? kageyama? hell, maybe even oikawa makes a surprise visit?)

The next song that plays is by Matsuhara Miki. Your shoulders start to relax, your steps more loose, your movements more fluid. Sugawara’s hands are now on your shoulders, the two of you closer than before. The two of you are much more in sync, as if moving as one.

You looked content.

And you have a small smile on your face.

Sugawara spins you around elegantly, and takes you into a dip. His face is leaning close to yours.

Bokuto couldn’t watch the scene anymore.

Prying himself from the glass of his balcony door, he heads to his bedroom, but even there he hears the music float by. He’d put on some music of his own, but he had to grudgingly admit, Sugawara had good taste.

After what feels like eternity, the music finally stops. The night’s silence returns again, but bits and pieces of your conversation make their way to his ears.

“...Suga, I don’t have the time...”

“Negative Sasaki is back again!…”

“...I only tolerate you because... your tea… those leaves... our relationship ends!”

_Is this some kind of new relationship situation?_

He shakes his head. No, that couldn’t possibly be the case.

Bokuto rolls off his bed and starts getting ready to meet up with his volleyball team for dinner. He puts on his coat, slips into his sneakers and heads out the door. While confirming the place of the restaurant in the groupchat—somewhere in Akasaka, he sprints down the seven flights of stairs.

Once he exits the apartment complex, he starts walking to the subway, his breath forming white puffs in the winter Tokyo chill. The warm lights of the buildings light up his way as Bokuto weaves through the crowds of people.

There’s a poster taped onto a convenience store advertising a sale for tea cakes that he passes by.

And then goes back to look at it.

Fluffy slices of cake take up the center space. “ _Your favorite flavors—now on sale!_ ” is written on it in printed calligraphy.

Then his phone emits a _ding_ —Atsumu texted him, asking _“where the hell are you???_ ” As Atsumu lived somewhere in Bunkyo, the next ward over, they had arranged to meet at the Ueno station.

 _“In 5!”_ he texts back and breaks into a run, his mind lingering on the tea cakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and finally, the full cast is now introduced! next chapter's gonna be a fun one :)
> 
> //we also have beta readers now, hello to the ones who will not be named :)
> 
> due to unfortunate spotify mishaps, 3/5 songs that you dance with sugawara in this one are not in the playlist, so here's the full order: [1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=faondb5n3qA) [2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AyRXFQabW5E) [3](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Dx3zuha4-0) [4](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aQGvlemqUpE) [5](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rrcs9AoXutw) (ofc you don't have to listen to any of these, but if you wanted the general vibes they're worth a listen)


	11. everybody tries the kamehameha at one point in their life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sooner or later, everybody has to confront a version of themselves they don’t like.
> 
> //
> 
> And deep down inside, he has an inkling that he knows what this indescribable feeling was, but he doesn’t want to name it just yet.

Kuroo Tetsurou is not a morning person.

There’s no logical reason for this. His brain just doesn’t immediately turn on when he first rose and did his morning routine—brush teeth, shave if needed, then make breakfast—all done mechanically. He’d much rather spend his time on his bed, but unfortunately life liked to deny that from him.

After long days of work at the Japan Volleyball Association—scheduling meetings and interviews with players and coaches, handling social media, confirming venues for the next games—Kuroo just wanted to be left alone during the weekends (sometimes Yaku called him at six in the morning during them, something he was definitely not a fan of).

So when he gets a call at a questionable time early in the morning on a Saturday, the sleepy man groans, cocooning further into his blanket. He wonders if whoever’s calling could just leave him alone.

The ringing continues until it reaches voicemail.

“Good morning, Kuroo-san. I want to talk to you about something today that I believe would be best discussed in-person. Do you mind if I come over and visit you sometime soon? Call me back at your earliest availability.”

Kuroo slowly sits upright (blanket still on his head), barely registering the monotone voice with no hint of humor.

_Of all people, him?_

Intrigued, his fingers fumble for his phone on the nightstand and he presses the call button without another thought. It rings twice, then the receiver picks up.

“Hello?” comes the response.

“‘Sup, Akaashi? I know Bo likes to wake up early and bother me, didn’t know you were partners-in-crime with him,” Kuroo says through a large yawn, his voice filled with gravel.

“I’m not the biggest fan of talking to you. But I needed your insights for this,” Akaashi replies stoically. “I presume I can come over today then?”

“Why are you in such a rush?” He slowly peels his blanket off his head, revealing his usual (though shorter now) bedhead. “What if I’m busy today?"

“You’re never busy on the weekends.”

Kuroo sighs. A part of him wants to completely ignore Akaashi’s request, but the curious side of him also did want to know just what the younger man wanted to talk about.

“Fine then, come over in twenty. You know the address?”

“I do. And thank you, I appreciate it.” The call hangs up without another word.

* * *

Sooner or later, everybody has to confront a version of themselves they don’t like.

This battle came to you in the form of a blank sketchbook page.

 _You know you can’t make anything,_ it taunts you.

 _Shut up. You’re just paper_ , you shoot back.

_Then start drawing._

It was right; you couldn’t.

And not doing work meant thinking.

As always, you thought about a lot of things.

You thought about the blank canvas that was supposed to be Yamada’s commission right behind you, breathing down your neck. The still blank form on your desk, Kimura’s now-fiery gaze trained at you, and of course, your grandfather.

For a man you’ve never seen before in your life, he sure did influence it a lot. Or maybe you were just the one chasing after him, a vague, looming presence. Good artists copy and great artists steal, and you were simply a poor imitator.

That single piece of paper, now crinkled at the corners, sitting at the corner of your desk, would determine what you showed to the public for the four years you had spent at the finest art school in Tokyo.

What could you show?

The ugly feeling in your stomach rears its head once again, and this time it can’t be suppressed.

You gaze back down into the waters surrounding your boat, the gaping hole of darkness now larger than ever, threatening to swallow your boat whole. It roared to be named, lashing out in anger. You couldn’t paddle away from it any longer.

This feeling, is in short—

Art block.

“Damn it all,” you mutter, as your hands clench your head in frustration.

Deep down, you knew this was coming. It crept quietly on you when senior year arrived, waiting silently in the shadows. You felt its presence after you intruded upon your neighbor, when you came back home after setting up your midyear festival exhibition; right before the dinner with Daisuke, and most recently, during studio.

On your laptop, you pull up Yamada’s email again.

_“My request this time is for a somewhat larger piece. It’ll be hung at the lobby of a newly-renovated office building in Yamanashi—don’t worry about shipping it there, I’ll take care of it as usual. As their company deals with wine production, I’d like for it to have some elements of nature. In the folder sent, I have attached photos of the lobby. Paint something to your liking, I believe you have the eye to see what will fit. I’d like to have this done in a month’s time. As always, let me know if you have any questions. Thank you once again, Yamada Aiko.”_

You had many, _many_ questions that probably wouldn’t be answered.

“Yamada-san, you and I both know how much artists hate the open-ended concept! Do you secretly have a death wish against me? Was it because I was rushing you for the payment? Did you possibly not like one of the pieces for you? Was it the one of the flowers? I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve caused you in the past! Please forgive me!” you yell, clapping your hands together.

Commissions were normally easy because people had set ideas they wanted, but they couldn’t actually visualize it on the canvas. That was where you came in, and helped bring their ideas to the physical world.

So when you’re hit with something that basically equated to “do whatever you want”, you’re honestly lost. You scroll mindlessly through the pictures Yamada sent in the folder, showing a lobby with a modern aesthetic mixed with wooden panels and potted plants on the sides.

_Man, this really sucks. What the hell am I even supposed to do here?_

You flip through the previous pages of your sketchbook in an attempt to gain some inspiration, but you couldn’t make sense of the lines or colors that were falling off the pages. Did somebody secretly go through your sketchbook one day and drew in it? None of the thick, bold lines, or the tiny, thin crosshatches looked familiar. When did your art look like _this_?

With a long sigh, you lean back in your chair, your gaze falling on the balcony.

Things weren’t going alright, and maybe it was finally time to let down your stubborn pride.

Sugawara was right (as much as you hated to admit it); you needed a change of pace, and you would take anything at this point.

* * *

“How did you figure out you wanted to be with Kenma in a romantic way?”

Kuroo almost spits out his coffee upon hearing those words. “Slow down there, aren’t you skipping a couple too many steps to be starting off with that?” he replies, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“My apologies. I thought it would be best to use a direct approach in this situation, rather than beating around the bush about it,” Akaashi replies, a neutral expression on his face.

“You really…” An exasperated sigh escapes from Kuroo’s lips as he runs his fingers through his hair. “Well, I wouldn’t really say me and Kenma are that close romantically. We don’t really put a label on what we have since we just enjoy each other’s company.”

“Could you elaborate some more?”

It’s not that Akaashi was completely, utterly lost at romance. He’s dated before, but none of those relationships led anywhere, fizzling out to the same ending. Any and every choice he made led to the same doomed conclusion.

 _“Whenever I’m with you, it always feels like your mind is somewhere far away, like you’re on the moon or something. Never on Earth,”_ someone had once told him. And Akaashi didn’t really know what it meant. He watched them leave with glassy and swollen eyes on their faces, disappearing into the mist, never to be seen again.

So what was it with you, that despite all the years, always stuck in his mind?

“Hmm… some people might see us as a couple, others might see us as close friends.” Kuroo leans back in the chair, just barely on the edge from tipping over. Akaashi’s mildly impressed with his balance. “He’s never been the type to really care about that kind of thing, and I don’t really care either, so that’s why I say we don’t really label what we have. Why do you ask?”

“The childhood friend of mine I mentioned when we did our New Year’s shrine visit, I have… mixed feelings about her.”

“Good way? Bad way?”

“Good way,” he replies hurriedly. “In the way that… I’m a bit confused as to what I think about her. Sometimes I—” he pauses for a bit, unsure of how to word it all, finding words really was never his strong suit.

“Want to be more than just a friend for her,” Akaashi decides to say.

It sounded extraordinarily lame when he put those words out in the open, exposed to the slightly cold chill of Kuroo’s apartment, but it was out there in the world now, and he can’t take it back.

Kuroo leans back forward slowly. “You mean, you wanna date her?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I asked the question, because I don’t honestly know if I want to be with her in that way.”

Though, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t entertain the idea just a bit, like he did at the grocery store. At the same time, what else was he supposed to do, if past experiences never turned out right?

With narrowed eyes, Kuroo studies Akaashi intensely; Akaashi staring right back levelly. The older man was clearly trying to glean some more information from him, though just _what_ that was, he’s not entirely sure.

“You’re strangely formal talking about this kind of stuff,” Kuroo finally says, relaxing his gaze.

“Excuse me for not having much experience in these matters.”

“No need to get so defensive there!”

“I wasn’t really being defensive.”

* * *

You’re wearing a jacket, leaning over your balcony railing. All you can see are dark gray clouds covering the sky. A tiny puff of air forms from your mouth as you exhale. Did the forecast mention snow? Everything was droll and colorless, except for the small red lights dotting the top of skyscrapers. Rather than being a winter Monet, the silence and brightness of white snow creating a fantastical, pure world, the scene looked more like a Manet with its murky, lifeless tones; a dusky, bleak ambience, foreshadowing some impending doom.

In your case, the doom came in after a couple minutes.

“Hey hey hey! I heard from a little bird that you like tea, so I got you some tea cakes—oh, but I don’t really know what flavor you like, so I bought all of them!”

Your next door neighbor, bundled up in a warm jacket and dark sweatpants, steps out onto his balcony and tosses a packaging of said tea cakes to you. 

(he had actually been waiting for you to come out onto the balcony, as he was still unsure of how you’d take it if he knocked on your apartment door. It was also still a little too early in the day to pull out the cans of beer.)

With some major fumbling around, you surprisingly manage to catch Bokuto’s gift—if one could call it that—doesn’t fly down seven stories. With a careful eye, you look at the package.

_How the fuck does he know my favorite flavor? No, that was just some stroke of luck, right?_

This, Bokuto decided, was his Super Attack Plan. He entered the convenience store as soon as he came back from the team dinner (just _slightly_ inebriated, atsumu had been completely out of it), barreled straight to the snacks section and grabbed as many of the castella cakes as he could, hoping at least one of them you liked.  
If one has tea, one also must have tea cakes, right?

“If you told me about this earlier, I should’ve brewed a pot or something,” you comment, tearing open the package. You aren’t one to turn down free food, after all. You hold up a slice to the air, examining it curiously.

“Oh, that would’ve been smart. Ah, damn!” he groans, ruffling his hair with his hands. “Next time then!”

Another _next time._ He expected these balcony talks to become a recurring habit, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Wait, but how do you know I like tea?” you ask, furrowing your brow. You only remember mentioning the beer thing to him the other day, and your memory couldn’t have been that faulty—

“I heard you and someone else talking about it on the balcony yesterday!”

_Oh. God._

“That disastrous motherfucker,” you mutter, angrily taking a bite from a slice of cake after deeming it edible (and to your surprise, it’s quite good). “I told him the neighbors would see us, I swear I’ll get him back someday.”

“Don’t worry, I just saw you for a bit out there! I like listening to citypop too, and I would’ve joined you guys, but it seemed to be”—he gropes around for the right phrasing—”a very close scene between the two of you…”

You stare at him for a moment in silence.

And then it hits you.

“No way in hell are we close like that. He’s going for somebody else that’s very much not me,” you wheeze uncontrollably, barely avoiding spitting out the chewed contents in your mouth. You cough a bit, thumping your chest. “Probably the exact opposite, honestly.”

Bokuto’s mouth forms a perfect ‘o’ shape in response, his hand holding two slices of cake. “Wait, is your friend’s name Sugawara? Our volleyball teams had some training camps together during high school! I didn’t know he was in Tokyo!”

“Yeah, it was him. He’s going to be an elementary school teacher back in Miyagi once he gets his degree here, so… this year’s gonna be his last here.”

“Wow, that kind of suits him...” He closes his eyes in thought and then opens them a couple seconds later, seemingly having come to his own conclusions on the matter. “He seems like the type to be good with kids!”

“Too good, in my opinion. That man looks nice and smiley on the outside, but he has a scary mom side of him. He’d give all the local mothers a good run for their money.” You involuntarily shudder, the memory from a couple days ago still sharp in your mind.

The spiker nods vigorously in agreement. “He was able to get some of his team’s high-energy ones under control, most setters have that kind of power. Akaashi did too! Oh, but I guess Kenma or Tsumtsum don’t…”

“I’m just going to pretend I know those people for conversation’s sake.”

“My bad!” Another chuckle. “So how’s everything going with you?”

* * *

“But Akaashi, I’m really surprised you’d come asking me about this,” Kuroo says, scratching his head, his coffee now almost finished.

“Believe me, I’m just as surprised, but there’s really no one else to talk to about it, since you’re in a… somewhat similar situation,” are the best words he thinks of. “I’m just not sure of what she thinks.”

“Why dontcha just ask her then?” Kuroo asks, like it’s the most simple thing in the world. But saying something and actually performing said thing often have major differences in terms of simplicity, he thinks.

“It's a bit, er, hard.” Akaashi’s tongue uncharacteristically gets caught up on itself.

Unfortunately for him, the ex-Nekoma captain catches this slip. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!” he exclaims. “You of all people, stuttering over his words? How far gone are you?”

“I’m not far gone at all,” he sighs, adjusting his glasses. “In fact, I don’t even think I’m on the level of what you think I’m on. It’s just kind of hard bringing up these sorts of subjects with her, since she’s so immersed in art. And I don’t want to ruin what we have by asking her that,” Akaashi replies, all too quickly, sounding like a chain of excuses.

He didn’t obsess over you like Jay Gatsby did over Daisy, hosting elaborate parties for the sole attention of a first love in a house too big for one, giving him the perfect view of a lone green light across the bay. Rather, your green light of existence popped up in random places throughout his day—a song he overhears on the radio, his stickers of your work on his laptop, the muted red sweater you thought would fit him nicely. All unknowingly, all suddenly, without any precursor. Akaashi wouldn’t want it any other way.

And this, too, was another hard, cold truth he exposed to the world. He didn’t want to ruin the delicate balance the two of you shared because it was more than enough for him, because it was all he needed.

Akaashi looks at the older man, who has a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. He’s not looking forward to the next part of the conversation.

“Just what kind of person is she to have you acting like this?” Kuroo asks, his hand supporting his cheek like some gossipy housewife.

Akaashi thinks about this for a bit.

How does he describe you?

You were _different_ ; that was the only way he could put it. He’s not sure why, really: you called him at times only convenient to you, stayed with him for the holidays, then disappeared for weeks on end, sometimes even months, as if he never existed to you. Then the cycle would repeat again. Somewhere down the line, he just accepted these situations as just another part of his life.

You, who had taken his breath away underneath setting suns, who made him on the brink of losing his normally calm and collected composure, who had him at your beck-and-call, because he didn’t know how else to be in your life.

You, who only looked straight forward.

“She’s just an artist,” is all he says.

Kuroo looks at him in a brief moment of confusion, but then his face morphs into a smirk, then into a moment of maniacal laughter so loud Akaashi wondered if he got possessed. He covers his eardrums as a somewhat effective barrier against the sound.

“Then you already know what she means to you, even if you don’t want to say it right now. But you’ll know in due time,” Kuroo finally says, still giggling, slapping his hand down on the table.

“How do you know—”

“Just take it as advice from me, as I’ve always been a nice person.”

* * *

_“So how’s everything going with you?”_

You hadn’t expected such a normal question asked.

Then again, you’re not sure what to expect of Bokuto Koutarou at this point.

“In the span of these weeks, I’ve been out here the same amount of time compared to in the autumn, so you tell me,” you answer, resting your elbows on the railing as you take another bite of the cake.

“Hm… You’ve started to appreciate the afternoon view of Ueno more?” he offers.

“No, I’ve actually been trying to practice my kamehameha out here to fight against a certain landlord.”

“Oh!” His eyes light up. “Thank you for the reminder about my rent payment!”

“Glad to be of assistance.”

There's a brief moment of silence, save for Bokuto gulping down a slice of cake, his fifth. You’re still on your second.

“Sometimes I come out here to just look at what’s in front of me, y’know? I don’t really like being in my apartment all that much,” he says, as a cold gust of wind blows by. Bokuto talked like he wanted to fill the silence with as many words as he could, making it easy for conversation to flow.

“In this weather? You must be crazy.”

“Same could be said for you then.” He glances at you with an inquisitive look on his face.

But even though he was easy to talk to, you still didn’t want to completely dump all of your art-related troubles onto him. Would a national volleyball player understand the woes of an artist? He, too, was probably out here for some other reason you’re unsure of, secrets that would go undisclosed. Such was the bond between neighbors—or was it acquaintances? Is there a difference?

“Why’d you move here of all places? This isn’t exactly athlete heaven.”

If anything, it was the exact opposite—Ueno’s seeped in cultural history with national museums, temples, and pagodas scattered all over the quiet district, not touched much by the modernization of Tokyo. A small nature paradise in a sea of skyscrapers. With how much Bokuto liked to go out, you thought he would’ve chosen Shinjuku or Ikebukuro to live in.

“I did the thing where you blindly throw a dart at a map of Tokyo, and it landed in Ueno on my first try! If it had been out further, I would’ve had to throw again. So then I just picked out this apartment since it looked the best! What about you?”

You point to a building in the distance, secluded in Ueno Park. “My school’s right there.”

He leans over the railing, eyes widening. “Ooh! It really is close once you look at it from here! That reminds me, I went to your exhibition show with Akaashi! But I was pretty lost before he showed up. I saw your pieces there and they were super cool! I really especially liked that white painting!”

You blink twice.

_What was Keiji even thinking?_

“Thanks. I appreciate it. Spent a lot of time working on them, you see. Almost broke my wrist with the big one,” you answer, trying your best to dodge the conversation that would come forth.

“Really?”

“No, that was a lie.”

He laughs. You thought he laughed too easily at everything. “But it paid off! It was like a mysterious force was sucking me into your paintings! It was a _zoooot_ feeling, like a really cool spike that shocks the crowd!”

“ _Zoooot?_ I like to think my paintings go more _swoooot._ That’s a shame.”

You actually didn’t understand what the hell he was saying, but you play along anyways.

“ _Swooot_ , huh… Actually, I felt that something was missing when I was looking at your art,” he drops on you out of nowhere. “An old man also told me the same thing, so I guess it’s not completely a guess on my part? Oh, but I still really enjoyed them! I just don’t know how to describe it well…” He scrunches up his face, deep in thought.

“It’s kind of like singing Midnight Drivin’ but during the daytime? Or that one song Plastic Love by Takeuchi Mariya, but without the plastic love?” Bokuto exclaims, like he just solved the answer to some unsolvable equation.

Your mouth drops open, making noiseless words, unsure of how to even respond to these statements.

Since when were athletes _this_ perceptive about things?

There was no way he could understand, right?

That would be too good to be true.

* * *

_You already know what she means to you, even if you don’t want to say it right now._

Akaashi really hated that pain-in-the-ass’s slippery way of dealing with things. When he exits the apartment in Shibuya, he still hasn’t gotten anywhere in finding out the answer to his question. Kuroo’s words are stuck in his mind as he enters the Shueisha building in the afternoon today, as he gives his greetings to another editor in the lobby and shows his ID to the receptionist at the front desk.

 _Do I really know?_ He rides the elevator up to the editing office.

All he knew was that you were his childhood friend, for lack of a better word. All he knew was that he liked your art, a lot. All he knew was that he wished you could stay over longer during winter break. 

“Good afternoon,” announces Akaashi as the elevator doors slide open to reveal the editing office, still in its usual messy state.

“Akaashi-kun, good afternoon!” The head editor greets him once again. “Sorry for calling you on late notice. I’m sure you already know this, but as the new manga artist’s award has been announced, Tomokazu-kun and Ichinose wanted to talk to you about moving forward in your internship.”

It had been announced on a day Akaashi was out of the office, and Tomokazu had emailed him the results some time later (the manga industry was never particularly great at keeping things organized), and told him to come to the office today.

“I don’t mind. Where are they at right now?” Akaashi asks.

“They’re on the third floor. The manga artist is coming in some time next month; he’s currently up in Miyagi and is planning to move here sometime soon. Feel free to go up now, they’re ready for you,” Kosegawa replies.

With a small bow, Akaashi gets onto the elevator again for the third floor.

* * *

“What, you thought that too?” you chuckle lifelessly, like you were a magician and your final trick had just been completely exposed by Bokuto. “Honestly, I just thought all of that was some bullshit that critics pulled out of their ass, but… if a volleyball player’s picked up on it, then…”

_He might actually understand._

You let the wind finish your sentence.

_Or maybe, I just didn’t want myself to be understood._

“Maybe it’s because you don’t like art anymore?” he asks, another flash of lightning that struck you down on the spot.

“Right into the heart of the matter, huh?” you mutter, letting out a long exhale.

Strangely though, it was refreshing.

“I’ve been told that was one of my strong points! Besides, you never really answered my question that time.”

His golden suns focus intensely on you again, prickling the surface of your skin with its heat, sending you warning signs all throughout your body that screamed _danger,_ that screamed _threat_ , and you’re reminded of a random fact you learned from an owl study you did long ago.

_Owl eyes aren’t actually eyeballs, but tube-shaped and can’t move, giving them amazing binocular vision._

Which made them have terrific sight of their prey, even from far away.

And unfortunately for you, you were caught in his line of sight.

You can’t escape.

_Do you like art?_

You didn’t like getting asked such a question because of how silly it sounded. If you didn’t like art, why else would you spend your life dedicated to it?

At the same time, what really was it that drove you, dedicating your entirety to a form of expression? All you know how to do is take your paintbrush, dip it in a color, and apply it to the canvas in front of you. Rinse and repeat for an indefinite amount of times.

And when Bokuto asked the question, why was it that you wanted to answer him?

You wouldn't call Bokuto Koutarou a _friend_ —yet everything flowed so easily. When you first barged on his door, when you came back from the dinner, and now, underneath a gray sky. He revealed everything he felt without a second thought. Pure honesty and simplicity.

So maybe that's why you decide to answer.

You turn back to face the dull Tokyo cityline in front of you, letting out a long exhale.

“Probably not, honestly.”

And that was the truth, that you had run away and hid from for so long now, laid out in the open, exposed to the cold winter air. It was a simple but ugly truth, that bestowed a certain type of pain onto you that you couldn’t place your finger on. 

The first snowflakes fall down.

* * *

As he steps out of the elevator, Tomokazu greets him with a nod.

“As you’ve already seen in the email, we’ve announced the award,” his senior says, in lieu of any pleasantries. “Apologies that you didn’t get to read the submission beforehand, but we felt like this would be the only workable story out of all we’ve gotten.” He hands him the winning manuscript, and Akaashi takes it, the weight of its importance solid in his hands.

Zombie Knight Zomb’ish is written on the cover page. He flips through the pages, paying close attention to the story. It was well-written and well-drawn; Akaashi could understand why it was awarded the coveted prize, and was certainly better than the submissions he had read (though not without its flaws).

“What do you think?” Tomokazu asks immediately after he finishes.

“The author has a captivating premise set up. Even though it's set in an isekai, I believe it separates itself nicely from the rest of the work in the genre—”

He holds up a hand, cutting off Akaashi’s train of words. “No, I’m not asking for your opinion from an objective standpoint. We know it’s good, otherwise we wouldn’t have picked it. What do you, as Akaashi Keiji the person, think about it?”

Akaashi’s eyebrows furrow in thought.

 _What do I think about it_?

He looks down at the cover page, a rough sketch that needed a lot of refinement. The name “Udai Tenma” is written in the corner. A completely unknown person. Akaashi’s not even sure if it’s a real name.

What did he think about it?

“I… don’t know,” he answers truthfully, pushing up his glasses. “But I am interested to see how this story continues.”

It was better than nothing, at least.

Something like amusement flickers over Tomokazu’s face. “Well, you’re free to take that with you to read it again, if you want. Since you’ll be stuck with it now and all,” he says with a somewhat unnerving smile and pats him on the back. “We’ve decided to greenlight you to be the editor.”

Akaashi’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly at this statement, then his face returns back to its usual steely demeanor.

“Thank you very much for this opportunity,” he replies with a bow. “Um, if I may ask, why was I put in charge for this?” He stands up straight again.

“Well, we’ve already said that we think it’s about time you did some actual work around here,” Tomokazu says. “Filing papers and making us coffee gets pretty tiring, doesn’t it?”

“No, I wouldn’t exactly—”

“Besides,” his senior interrupts him, holding up a hand. “You’re here at Shueisha, one of the largest publishing companies, and you’ve proved your worth to us! Chances like this won’t come to you out of nowhere.” 

Akaashi’s not entirely sure if Tomokazu knew about the whole _vague, ambiguous_ mess in his mind—the man never did ask what Akaashi wanted to do, only told him what to do. His role as an intern was just that; to meet the expectations of those around him. As he’s always done in the past. 

But being an editor, that was something else. He would be the one setting the expectations, demanding the best from whoever Udai Tenma was.

“Make sure you do this with your full ability,” Ichinose finally speaks up, sitting on the black couch. “It would be rude to us and the artist if you don’t.”

And he knew that too, that he’d had to fully answer to this manga artist’s passion, despite him not believing he was suited for the role (and he’s not even sure if he wanted to be in the manga department). As he too, has done in the past.

“Understood,” he says simply, to everything thrown at him. There’s not much else he can do, anyways.

Tomokazu gives him a nod in return. “We’re counting on you.”

* * *

But before Bokuto can say anything in return—

“At the same time, I’m too far gone into this whole art world to do anything else.”

And this was another unbreakable truth, one that gleamed with the white of the snow, one that seeped through the cracks of rocks and flowed down with an ever-changing form, the truth that was the sparkles on your mug during the morning.

Because you couldn’t, wouldn’t, do anything other than art. And that might be a stubborn or narrow way of thinking, but it was the only thing you had left. Perhaps you were too high in the sky with your _something_ , bound to fall down and burn. Maybe you were going to stay in your small apartment in Ueno forever, because that was all you amounted to.

Or perhaps you’d climb. Climb to new places with whatever you had and bear witness to the sights it would bring. Either way, it was inseparable from you now.

Bokuto grins.

“I don’t really think I get it, but I’ll be cheering you on!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask exasperatedly. “How can you even cheer me on in the first place?”

But there's something about the line that resonates with a faint sense of familiarity inside you. You're not sure why.

“I don’t know!” he declares with full confidence, placing his hands on his hips. “But whatever you do, I’ll support you! Oh, but if you start going into the underworld or something, I probably won’t… then again, if you had a _really_ good reason to, maybe I would…” Bokuto puts his thumb and index finger in a V-shape underneath his chin. “Like being a vigilante or something? Well, either way, you have my full support!”

He gives you a double thumbs up and you look at him, eyebrow raised.

“First bartending, now vigilantism? Have you been reading mystery novels or something?”

“No! I hate reading!” Bokuto announces with full force. “Oh, but I did read one of Akaashi’s recommendations once! That was pretty good! I forgot the title though.”

You turn back to the skyline once again, looking down at the swarms of umbrellas that popped up below, colorful flowers against a gray scene.

“I’ll be cheering you on in your career as well, then. Gotta show ‘em who’s boss and all.” The words sounded strange and clunky from your mouth, like tasting a new combination of food, but Bokuto didn’t seem to mind (or even notice).

“You got it!”

Suddenly, an alarm from his phone goes off. He quickly pulls it out and turns it off.

“Speaking of which, I’ve got practice in a bit now, so I should get going! Nice talking to you, Sasaki-san! I’ll give you a can of Sapporo next time! Oh, my offer to take you out still stands!” In a flurry of words, he waves his hand at you in goodbye and exits the balcony before you could even say thanks. You watch his figure disappear into his apartment.

_What the hell was that?_

It's only when you walk back inside do you realize how cold it was, your fingers now tomato red and numb.

* * *

Akaashi exits the Shueisha building some time later, none the wiser. It had started snowing outside, the small snowflakes barely sticking onto the pavement. His breath forms white puffs like thought bubbles in the air. A stream of cars pass by in front of him, all the same dull colors. He looks up; the gray sky greeting him in return.

 _What would this scene look like if it was painted with your colors_ , he wonders as he waits for the bus to come.

And deep down, he has an inkling that he knows what this indescribable feeling was, but he doesn’t want to name it just yet. Or maybe Kuroo had worked something with his silver tongue on him, making him think this way. Akaashi wanted to confirm first, with his own eyes, because he was still unsure of the whole thing. It would be unwise to jump headfirst without any preparation beforehand, into the swirling depths of whatever was going on inside him.

Life was filled with so many of these vague ambiguities, of _perhaps_ and _maybes_. He’s not sure if he would ever find answers to them.

Though, of course, maybe he’s already jumped in. That too, was another possibility.

For now though, he just pushes it to the side as he clings to the strap handle. The bus starts its drive through the Tokyo traffic, his mind wandering to when you were going to call him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11 chapters in and we are Finally starting the whole romance/love aspect of the story... thanks to you all who have made it here, it's gonna turn into a rollercoaster up ahead (and thanks for the 1k hits + 50 kudos!)
> 
> //i also have a one-shot written out for KuroKen in this timeline that will be released in the coming weeks (as it's a bit hard to put in this fic), stay tuned


	12. the line between genius and idiocy is paper thin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neighbors, acquaintances, _friends_ , was there a difference, you wondered. What were the lines between them? Were there any to begin with?
> 
> Was there any point in thinking about them?
> 
> //
> 
> _You already know what she means to you._
> 
> There was only one answer.

An art block can go two ways.

The first: your hand wants to move, but something in your mind is blocked off, not connecting with your hand.

The second: your mind wants to make something, but something in your hand has stopped moving, not able to connect with the brain.

You’re not sure which one you fell under at this point. Maybe it was the first. Maybe it was the second. Maybe both were blocked by a large, immovable boulder. Maybe it was neither, and somehow you’ve invented a third type of art block.

A week later, and you’ve only managed to start some rudimentary maquettes for the commission, none of them looking particularly eye-catching. They looked more akin to childish scribbles—not even the kind Picasso would’ve been proud of.

The art block is now spreading out to other parts of your life too, rooting itself in your daily activity. When you woke up this morning and brushed your teeth, you couldn’t even recognize your face in the mirror. It was too _weird_ for no apparent reason. You asked yourself where the person in the mirror was headed. Where were they right now? But, before all of that you had to ask—

_Who the hell are you?_

You vowed to not look in mirrors for the rest of the day.

Because of that, you did a lot of nothing. It was easy to do nothing, you learned, despite everything going around. You were doing nothing, absolutely _nothing_ , as time slipped through your fingers like fine grains of sand, as the sun rose and set, as the moon followed. _Nothing_ in your classes, since your professors were letting everybody work on their graduation shows. _Nothing_ when you wandered aimlessly around in Ueno after classes, not knowing where to go or what to do. You existed in some purgatory, in between this reality and the void. Were you even a body anymore? You were just some sort of concept floating around. Maybe you were in a dream. Maybe you were in a nightmare.

So yeah, things weren’t going well.

Tossing your pencil to the side for the nth time this week, you’re about to walk to your balcony when suddenly—

_Thud._

Your head snaps to the direction of the sound, and you’re not entirely sure if you’re seeing things correctly. You rub your eyes once, twice, but the image still remains. You pinch yourself, and it hurts.

The only conclusion you got was that, no you were not dreaming, and yes, this was reality.

Bokuto Koutarou is on your balcony.

* * *

Bokuto wouldn’t consider himself an idiot. 

Sure, he might have a one-track mind, but he knew where his strengths lay. 

One was in volleyball. The other was in social skills.

He knew how to read people, where to push and pull, give them space or press further, figuring out the gist of a person with just a conversation or two. A bundle of high energy and endless charisma mixed into one. His extroversion became a weapon of sorts that he could use to shatter open even the most closed-off of hearts. He might not be the brightest academically, but his emotional intelligence was second-to-none.

And on the court, things were no different.

Bokuto was somebody who could get the whole crowd, the whole world, looking right at his burning star. It held the weight of a red giant, eclipsing everything around him. Even if a person attended the game as a fan of the opposing team, they’d slowly find themselves clapping along to Bokuto’s serves, because he was the most captivating on the court. There was always a need for a player like him, who could bring up the morale of the team with just his presence, flowing with charisma that told the world, he would make himself known.

A man who carried the weight of the world on his back, all just to have fun.

That was Bokuto Koutarou. 

And sometimes, his charisma meant making his point clear.

Sometimes, making that point meant jumping onto his neighbor’s balcony.

Bokuto jogs in place to warm up for a running start at the far right edge of his balcony. On a silent _one_ , he dashes off like a short-distance sprinter in the Olympics, gaining as much speed as he can. Just before he hits the left edge, his knees bend to propel himself upwards and leaps into the air, crossing the two railings in a beautiful arc with room to spare. He lands onto your balcony spectacularly with one knee on the ground, muscular arms pushed out to the side like a pair of wings.

_Wow, I look super cool right now, don’t I?_

A couple seconds later, he hears the door slide open.

“Uh, Bokuto-san. Can you please tell me what you’re doing?”

He stands up and faces you. You’re wearing the same T-shirt and sweatpants outfit, paint-splattered. But your eye bags are darker than normal, and your once-fiery eyes are now replaced by dull, glassy pools. A shell of the Sasaki (Name), filled with trails of smoke and piles of ash.

_What happened to you?_

“Just swingin’ by for a visit!” Bokuto says, putting a hand up in greeting.

“We’re seven stories up.”

“This seemed more fun!”

“You’re a national volleyball player.”

“I was testing my jump!”

If Kuroo was there, he might’ve laughed his ugly laugh upon seeing Bokuto. Was he out of his mind? Probably, but he’s always wanted to try jumping the balcony like they did in shoujo mangas.

“Can you please explain why you’re on my balcony in the first place?” you ask hollowly, not even able to muster the energy to properly react to the situation at hand.

“I haven’t seen you in a week now! Are you alright?”

Bokuto wanted to be a good neighbor for you, a friend to you. You were somebody who understood his passion for volleyball, somebody who was chasing a dream of your own. You didn’t admit it outright, but he just _knew_ that you weren’t here out of some external obligation.

Bokuto Koutarou had made his mind already a long time ago, but now the resolve burned even more intensely: he wanted to know you.

And if that meant he had to help you, he was more than willing to do that.

“You jumped onto my balcony just to ask that?”

“Yep!”

There was so much that you just wanted to scream out and vent to the building in front of you, but at the same time, you’re too tired to do so. You look straight into his golden suns, observing you with only genuine concern.

In front of you is a man, who still talked to you, even went to your art exhibition, despite your _unconventional_ first meeting. He immediately noticed that missing quality from your works, even though he had absolutely zero connection with the fine art world. He spilled out his whole life story to you on the second meeting.

Bokuto Koutarou was an open book.

Which made him vulnerable.

But still, he was okay with that.

Neighbors, acquaintances, _friends_ , was there a difference? Or were you just drawing lines, too afraid to face what was beyond them? Bokuto had seen you at one of your low points—still is, if you were being dead honest.

 _Maybe if you weren't so lonely_ was the word you didn’t want to complete that night. Such was the path of an artist, as dictated by centuries of ones who came before. But human solitude could only last so long, before it eats away everything like acid.

This was another one of those moments where you couldn’t run from.

And having just one more friend couldn’t hurt too much, could it?

You take a step forward, taking a deep breath, looking into his golden eyes, swirling with only concern. With every motion, Bokuto was signalling he would be here for you.

Perhaps, you just had to let go.

“Are you free today?”

“Yeah, until around late afternoon. What’s up?”

You buy the ticket to the “Be Friends With Your Neighbor” train. Destination and Estimated Time of Arrival: Unknown.

“I’ll take you up on that offer of yours,” you say, swallowing down a lump in your throat (and some of your pride with it too). “Just nowhere loud, please. I don’t like loud places.”

He gives you such a large grin like what you said was the most uplifting piece of news he’s ever heard.

“Sure thing!”

* * *

Of all places you were expecting him to take you, you weren’t expecting the aquarium.

Though, it oddly made sense. The aquarium was a public space, which fit his wants, but one where visitors were expected to be relatively quiet, which fit your needs.

He was bouncing on the balls of his feet the whole bus ride there and skipped outside once the doors opened. You called out his name a couple times to remind him that, no you were not running there _, could you please slow down because not all of us have the body of a national athlete, I’m going to go back if you don’t—_

“My bad, Sasaki-san!” Bokuto chuckles in his usual confident way, completely unaffected by your threat. Luckily, he slows down as the two of you cross the crowded intersection to the Tokyo Solamachi, the famed Skytree town. The transmission tower is so high that even when craning your neck at the highest angle, you couldn’t see where the very top was (though that was also because of the cloud cover).

With bounding leaps Bokuto runs up the stairs to the Sumida Aquarium, a place you didn’t even know existed—art museums always came first in priority of places to visit. The two of you stand in line (thankfully not too long, despite it being a weekend), Bokuto’s toe tapping impatiently on the ground. Once the family in front of you leaves the counter, he immediately rushes over. 

“Two adult tickets, please!” he announces loudly.

“That’ll be 4600 yen in total,” the clerk replies coolly. You’re about to fish out your wallet but Bokuto stops you with a raised hand.

“This is my treat!” he says, sliding over his card. All words of protest bubble forth form your lips but he ignores every last one, staring straight at the ticket machine currently printing out two tickets. The clerk hands him the tickets with an “Enjoy your visit!”

Bokuto hands you the slip of paper and starts walking to the automatic doors. “You can repay me by promising to visit all that’s here today!"

“I have a feeling I’m going to regret this now,” you sigh, dragging your feet along.

“Don’t worry! Trust me on this!”

Upon entrance, you’re greeted by an earthy smell. In front of you, branches covered in delicate green moss are submerged in large tanks of clear water, teeming with tiny signs of life. The dark wooden floorboards creak slightly as you walk around, taking a closer look at the branches. The bag on your back reminds you of the weight of your sketchbook and pencil case, but for now, you simply observe, soaking in every little detail.

“Oh, look at that one right there! Hiding in between the leaves!” Bokuto gasps, pointing to a tiny red fish sporting a large black dot next to its eye. “It’s like a pirate eyepatch, isn’t it?”

“But it’s not covering its eye,” you counter. “Doesn’t that just completely derail the point of the eyepatch?”

“Still looks cool! Maybe the pirate is off duty?”

“Then why even bother with the eyepatch?”

“Maybe it’s an act of intimidation? Or maybe it’s just a fashion statement!”

Next is the jellyfish exhibit, where thousands of luminous masses float on by, some with long trails oscillating with the water. While the aquarium is dark, the jellyfish tanks are lit up by a deep purple fluorescent light, tinting the water’s color. The people walking by are frozen in time, shadows that flitted in and out.

“I like jellyfish a lot,” you muse absentmindedly, snapping some photos of the gelatinous blobs drifting towards you. “They don’t have to do anything since they have no brains, heart, or lungs.”

“They don’t? Are they even living?” Bokuto’s curiously examining the jellyfish next to you, shoulders just centimeters apart.

“Just barely.”

He frowns, apparently unsatisfied. “That doesn’t sound that interesting." An almost transparent jellyfish, save for a pink mass in the center comes into view and he pokes the tank, as if expecting a trick. Of course, nothing happened.

“But jellyfish don’t really have emotions, so would it matter?”

Simple masses, floating forever in the water. Jellyfish didn’t have to worry about worldly things like an art block.

“Hmm…” Bokuto scrunches up his face in thought. “I guess if I got my memories of being a human erased, I wouldn’t mind being a jellyfish then. You get to live forever and there’s a lot of cool stuff out in the ocean! Did you know that we haven’t even explored 80 percent of it?” he declares. “I bet if you’re a jellyfish, you could see more of that!”

“Huh. I didn’t know that.”

“That was something my friend said! I’m pretty sure it’s the right number!”

The next exhibition are four enormously long tanks housing coral reef life, from tiny, brightly colored fish that duck in and out of the anemone to a pair of large, oddly-shaped blue-green fish with weird heads. From fan-shaped polyps of red and violet with thousands of tiny branches attached, to light pink carnations with tiny, translucent fish swimming in and out, to round, brain-like shapes of neutrals and muted greens, each of the coral structures created their own little worlds. You take some more photos for reference, admiring the colors.

“Sasaki-san, over here! They’re eels that pop out from the sand! Isn’t that cool?” Bokuto excitedly whispers a row away. You go over to where he’s standing and sure enough, rows of tiny eels, each sporting a range of spotted patterns, are popped up from the sand. They sway in the clear water, round black irises examine their surroundings curiously.

“Hellooo!” Bokuto crows, eyes wide open. “I’m gonna name you Black Spots #1, you Black Spots #2, you White Spots #1—”

“Isn’t that a bit too unoriginal?” you sigh.

“How about this one’s Luffy, that one’s Goku, this one over here is Vegeta—”

“I think you’d get sued for plagiarism.”

“Then what would you name them?” He turns to you in a show of indignance, crossing his arms with a pout.

“...Spotty, Dotty, Stripey.”

“Aren’t you the artist here? That’s no better than my first set of names!”

“I named the piece you really liked ‘Stillness’, do you really think I’m good with names?”

Once you’re out of the coral reef exhibition you’re greeted by a massive tank spanning the size of a basketball court on the first floor. You lean over the balcony, and in the violet-pink hued waters—

“Woah, penguins! And seals!” Bokuto exclaims, his eyebrows almost flying off his forehead. The man was quite expressive, you realized, having a new one available for each exhibition. It might serve well to do some studies of him.

You turn your attention back to the tank down below, where flocks of penguins are swimming in the water and trainers on the rocks are throwing fish. Some of the birds and seals waddle by, while others are snapping at every opportunity for food.

“I wonder if they have to worry about anything. No natural predators, their food is all taken care of, and they’re free to swim wherever they want to,” he says, putting his hand in a V-shape formation on his chin.

“They’re still being held captive though,” you note, peering over the edge.

“Mm, that’s true. It’d get boring after a while, wouldn’t it?”

A sudden strike of creativity hits the spiker.

“Hey, Sasaki-san…” he begins, as nonchalantly as possible.

“What’s up?”

“ _Iruka ga iruka_? (is there a dolphin?)”

You look at him and blink.

“I’m leaving.”

“Wait a second, I’m really sorry! Don’t leave yet please!”

Downstairs, there’s a good number of people crowding around the glass of the tank, but with Bokuto’s height, he manages to get a good view of the animals. Penguins zoom by, their black and white colors streaking through the deep blue waters, with the occasional seal paddling along.

“Which one do you think is the fastest?” he asks, pressing his face up to the glass in awe.

“How would I even know?”

“Just use your instincts! For me, I think it’s that one over there, with the really strong white eyebrows. It looks tough!” Bokuto points at a penguin standing on the rocks. Oddly, it looked pretty similar to himself.

You survey the penguins thoroughly. “Then I’ll bet on the tallest one, on that edge.”

“Oh, I guess that would be because of—er, what’s it called again? Aero… aerodynamite?”

Physics wasn’t his strong suit.

“Isn’t it… aerialdynamics?”

Nor was it yours.

He shakes his head. “No no, the aero part has to be right. Aero… aerodynasty?”

“Where did the dynasty come from? Just ask Kei—er, Akaashi-kun.”

“Oh, good idea! He knows everything! Hmm, maybe once we’re out though.”

You head over to the Edorium, the goldfish exhibition next. Hanging from the ceiling are delicately crafted sculptures of paper-mache goldfish, white with orange spots. The tanks are arranged in a unique formation of varying shapes, where fish of all different sizes and colors swim around. 

The geometric designs on the bottom of the tank floors, coupled with the organic movement and body of the spotted fish starts spinning in your brain. Dark blue against orange, with black and white as accents.

_Maybe… this could work._

“Wow, this guy over here looks pretty sick with its black spots. I think it’ll be a fine fighter!” Bokuto pipes up, pointing to a particularly large fish in a tank. 

“How do goldfish even fight?”

“Isn’t there that one type of fighting fish? I bet they use their fins or something.”

Somehow, Bokuto always had something to say about the animals, even if it did sound childish. Half out of politeness you humor them, but a part of you was genuinely interested in what he said, carried along by his vortex of a mind. There were idiots and there were geniuses, and Bokuto existed in the barely-existing space between the two.

(scary, really, if you stopped to think about it.)

Guided by the flow of the other visitors, the two of you stop in front of a tank, the top reaching the ceiling. The water is a deep brilliant blue, housing countless fish species, as well as stingrays and a couple of sharks. Near the floor, you spot some large eels slithering in and out of the sand. Perhaps it was the sheer scale of the tank, but it's impressive to behold. Without a second thought, you take some pictures of different angles, trying to capture all sorts of animals in the frames.

“Out of all the animals in here, which one would you choose to be in your next life? I think being that shark over there would be cool,” Bokuto points to a shark swishing its tail back and forth swimming near the top of the tank.

“That rock.” You point to a nondescript rock at the far end, where a couple of fish swim around it. “It doesn’t have to do anything but be a rock.”

“What kind of answer is that? That’s not even an animal!” he protests.

“Yeah, but I don’t really want to do anything else. Too much effort,” you reply lazily.

He thinks about this for a bit. “Then if you were a rock, I’d take you to see all the great places there are in the world!”

Your eyebrow arches up as you put down your phone, surprised at the suddenness of his declaration. “Didn’t you say you were going to be a shark? How would you even move the rock out of this aquarium?”

“Wow, you really sounded like Akaashi there. A shark can dream, can’t it?” 

His eyes stare directly at you. Two golden suns, now a calm blue from the reflection of the water.

You avert your gaze, not wanting to drown yourself in them.

“Akaashi-kun’s much more level headed than me, we’re pretty different,” you mutter as you begin to move past the people.

The final stop is a long kaleidoscope tunnel. According to the brochure Bokuto had snagged at the entrance, there was a special exhibition currently held for the rest of the month.

As the two of you walk in, projections of almost-transparent jellyfish float by. On the walls are the actual jellyfish tanks from earlier, pink and red in color. From the sky projected snow falls, surrounding the two of you in an ephemeral, winter-like scene. The faint smell of winter reaches your nostrils, and soft music plays in the background, unconsciously relaxing your shoulders.

“Woah—it’s like they’re real! That’s so cool!” Bokuto whisper-yells to you, not wanting to disturb the peaceful atmosphere. 

You simply nod in awe as you walk forward slowly. “I know somebody at my school who mentioned they got a job to help work on this,” you whisper back, much softer. You had overheard whispers from Kikuchi about his latest job revolving around jellyfish in an aquarium, eating a total of five cashews for lunch every day.

“Really? If you see them, tell them I said this is super amazing!”

“Mm. I will.”

Etching everything into your mind to save for later. Compositions and colors flashed by in your mind, from the sharp lines of the neon tanks to the organic forms of the translucent jellyfish, everything coalesced into a gigantic pool.

Your fingers twitch.

Somewhere deep in your mind, a gear starts turning again.

* * *

Bokuto really did think it was super amazing. How were they able to get snowfall and jellyfish look so realistic floating by? If he reached out, it felt like he could feel the stinging cold of the snow, or the ticklish feeling of a jellyfish’s tentacles. He’s about to ask you how your classmate made all of this when he stops upon seeing your face.

For most of the visit, whenever he turned to you, your eyes still held the same glassy quality. Nothing burned inside them. So he tried talking to you to help start that fire again.

But now?

A jellyfish projection floats by you, your gaze following its movements. You’re standing in a place where he can see the fake snow falling down on you, disappearing once it hits your hair and clothes. 

And just like the morning on the balcony, just like the time at the midyear festival, in the depths of your eyes, he sees a glimmer that you’re staring in another world. A world he’ll never be able to see.

Before he gets to say a word—

“Oh, Bokuto, something the matter?” you ask, facing him.

It happened in slow motion.

He sees your eyelids widen.

Next came the eyebrows that raised.

Your eyes lock with his.

He looks back at you.

You look back at him.

You.

Him.

You.

Him.

You.

He blinks.

“Did you just… call me… Bokuto? Sasaki…san?” he asks, slowly, deliberately, as if any sudden movement would scare you away.

With a sigh—“Yeah, I guess I did,” you admit.

A beat later:

“Sasaki is fine,” you mumble, barely above the ambience. “I don’t like the whole formalities thing anyways. Doesn’t suit any of us.”

If Bokuto suddenly turned into a jellyfish projection and floated away right now, he’d be okay with that.

You start walking away from him, ascending the tunnel’s incline. He knew the water ripples were also just a projection, but it really did seem like you were some otherworldly being.

“Ah, wait, Sasaki”—and he can’t help but smile when he says that—”Where are you going?”

“You said we’re visiting all the places here, right? There’s a cafe in this aquarium and I’m hungry right now,” you answer twenty paces ahead of him, not turning back.

He runs up the ramp. Twenty becomes ten becomes zero in a flash, and he’s walking right behind you. 

Even though he can’t see your face right now, he’s happy. And that thought came to him so naturally that he doesn’t even pay attention to it—but then again, he’s never been the type to dwell on such ideas. 

Bokuto’s smile stretches into a grin.

“You read my mind!”

* * *

You ended up boarding the “Be Friends With Your Neighbor” train quite sooner than you realized.

After Bokuto bought you the salted vanilla ice cream “in celebration of our friendship finally starting!” he had to rush back to his apartment to not miss practice. With a wave and a goodbye, he rushed down the stairs, disappearing into the afternoon crowd.

Was this friendship? He had said the word so easily, as if it was a natural thing to happen.

You’re not particularly paying attention to where your feet are taking you, as your mind’s still on the aquarium visit. You bump into the shoulders of some people, muttering a half-assed apology to them. But instead of the sights, you’re replaying the snippets of the conversation you had with Bokuto. 

One night, you were angry at him. The next, everything’s alright again. You’re not even sure why you were mad that day anymore.

It was scary, how quickly it all happened. All in one aquarium visit.

Was that how any of this worked?

Neighbors, acquaintances, _friends_ , was there a difference, you wondered. What were the lines between them? Were there any to begin with? Was there any point in thinking about them?

 _I’m thinking too much about this_.

For some reason, you don’t exactly want to return to your apartment just yet. Pulling out your phone, you dial a number.

“Yo, Keiji-kun. Are you free right now? I wanna go somewhere with you.”

There’s a second of a pause from the other end.

“I’m available. Did you have any place particular in mind?” comes his response.

“Yeah, I’ll text you the details. Can you meet me there at around 5:30ish? It’s in Shinjuku. See you then!”

If you were going to go out on a limb today, you might as well go all out. Though, unfortunately from you, Shinjuku is over thirty minutes away from where you currently are.

_Ah, well. Not much for planning in the first place._

* * *

It’s twelve minutes past the arranged time when you arrive at the front of the cafe, a two-story concrete building, tucked in a cramped alleyway. On the second floor window, the word “Coffee” is written out with peeling yellow letters. The glass door is covered with various fading stickers and posters advertising today’s specials. Next to it is a garage door, the letter “f” painted in cracking red paint. An equally bright red vending machine stands in front of it, whirring underneath the sounds of cars rushing by. For somebody like Tachibana recommending this place to you, she must’ve found it quite special.

The notes of a Brubeck crescendos as you walk up the cramped stairs, floorboards creaking with each step until you reach the second floor, revealing a small but quaint cafe. A row of white tables with orange chairs run down the center, some occupied by small groups, others by a single person. Akaashi is already seated at a table next to the window and a potted tree, so engrossed in whatever he was reading that he doesn’t notice you until you take a seat across from him.

“Sorry I’m late,” you apologize, a bit out of breath, pulling out the chair in front of him and taking a seat.

Akaashi looks up from his papers. “No worries, I haven’t been here long. What’s the occasion?”

“Is there a need for one? We haven’t seen each other in a while now, haven’t we?”

His eyebrows raise just a centimeter higher. “You’re finally becoming an adult now,” he replies, taking an idle sip from his water.

“What’s that supposed to mean? I hardly do something like this, and I’m getting attacked for it?” you complain, looking at the laminated paper of the menu, perusing the choices. A parfait sounded nice, but so did the sandwich. “Is this how you take my hospitality?”

“My apologies. I’m just a bit shocked,” he says, despite holding the same neutral expression on his face.

A waiter stops by your table. The two of you place your orders (him a sandwich, you a parfait) and your menus are taken away with a “Your orders will be ready in just a moment!”

“On second thought, maybe I should’ve invited you out to dinner since it’s almost 6.” You pull out your sketchbook and pencil case from your bag and flip to a blank page.

“If that happened, I think the world would end.”

“Wow, you’re not letting me easy even when I offered to take you here? I know some places, OK? You know, like that one in the Four Seasons hotel? They serve French-cuisine-that-I’m-not-really-sure-is-French cuisine there!” You unzip the pencil case, browsing for some pens to use.

“I was unaware you could treat me to a place like that,” he replies smoothly, returning back to whatever he was reading. “I’ll look forward to when you do then.”

“And now you’re leeching off of me? I’m not catching a break anytime soon, aren’t I?” Without much thought, you choose a black micron and some primary colors. In an art block, going simple was the best way to start.

“You’re the next up-and-coming artist, while I’m just an intern in college.” He flips the page nonchalantly.

When was Akaashi _this_ cheeky? You narrow your eyes. Then again, you’ve never invited him out to anywhere, really. Maybe he was a different person in public.

“I’m still in college too! Going through the whole barely-making-my-rent-payments-on-time situation here!” You tap the head of a black pen on your chin. “Then, let me draw you. It’ll be your compensation.”

Drawing people right in front of you was always easy, and Akaashi, being how still he is, always served as a good model for your sketches.

Akaashi finally looks up again. “Do you need me to pose in any way?”

“Don’t hold up your papers too close to your face. Oh, and don’t look too downwards.”

He returns to reading his sheaf of papers, following your instructions.

You carefully observe Akaashi’s face, a face you could create a spinning 3D model in your head. Like Sugawara, it carried a sense of grace and tranquility, though his is more on the neutral to mildly-annoyed side. Akaashi’s dark, defined eyebrows, two strokes of a calligraphy brush, don't move. His lips are the same story, drawn in a straight line, his upper lip a perfect Cupid's bow. The early evening glow filtering through the window makes his somewhat tanned skin look golden in the light and casts a sharp shadow across his features, further accenting the knife’s edge that is his jawline and high cheekbones. Yet his face itself held no effect of the sharpness—rather, it looked quite soft and demure. His jet-black hair give off a healthy sheen in the warm glow.

All of Akaashi’s features are straight from an old master’s painting with how still and delicate they are, the only thing revealing he didn’t climb out of a canvas came from his eyes, behind his black-rimmed glasses. The thin and slightly slanted gunmetal blue eyes shift up and down, then right to left across the page. Whenever he blinked, his eyelids fluttered fairy-like, a quick and smooth action one would’ve had to study him closely, like you were, to have noticed. Though, just like the rest of his face, they too held no emotion.

With a yellow pen, you outline the illuminated edge of his face. Your various sketches of him are nothing terribly structured or thought out, a half-baked idea scribbled on a napkin.

If this was the Renaissance era, Akaashi might’ve modelled for a David sculpture. How come high school volleyball setters always got the good looks?

“Keiji-kun, you’re really pretty,” you blurt out, without much thought.

* * *

Akaashi was busy reading over the first chapter of Zomb'ish when out of nowhere, he hears you say those words.

 _Kei-ji-kun_. You enunciated each syllable like the beat of a drum, without hesitance.

He looks up, a bit startled. _You-’re-rea-lly-pre-tty_. More drum beats that directed the beat of his heart. He’s well aware of how blunt you could be at times, but this was another level. When did you ever hand out compliments?

In the first place, when did you ever ask him to go out anywhere? He’s not even sure of the last time that happened. It was a question you dropped on him out of the blue when he was working on an essay back in his dorm, and he had no choice but to say yes. He’s not sure why he agreed. 

(actually, he _does_ know, he thinks, as he hailed down a taxi rather than waiting for a bus to get here.)

Just then, the light coming through the window shifts ever so slightly. Your eyes are now lighted on fire, awash golden hues. It was a gaze that threatened to reveal the very depths of his soul, reading each and every line on his face for something he doesn't know.

Akaashi's heart clenches a bit, squirming uncomfortably in his ribcage. What was with you and sunsets? They always seemed to have this weird effect on him. Were you expecting an answer from him?

(this is why he doesn’t want to meet your gaze.)

Kuroo’s voice enters his mind: _You should just talk to her about it._

But how was he supposed to, if his tongue is all tied together in some elaborate surgeon knot? How was he supposed to, if he doesn’t know the words to use?

Akaashi opens his mouth to reply, but your eyes return back down to your sketchbook, pen in hand drawing away like nothing happened. Unconsciously, his shoulders relax, but his mind is racing with even more questions.

Perhaps you didn’t mean anything by it? Was it just a purely observational comment? Did you actually mean it from a physical point of view? Or was it aesthetics? What did you really think of him? 

(did you think the same way?)

“Thank you,” he manages. 

He wants to slap himself for saying just that.

The waiter comes back, bringing the two orders on a tray. “Please enjoy!” she says and gives a polite bow.

“Ooh, this really does look good. I’m gonna take a picture to send to Tachibana,” you chirp, getting out your phone.

He picks up a sandwich from his plate and bites into it. The chewy bread mixes together well with the juiciness of the fruit and the soft texture of the cream. He’s hardly ever been out to a place on your recommendation, but so far it’s one to zero.

Akaashi glances at you eating your parfait with much gusto, which is topped with layers of your favorite fruit and whipped cream. There’s a bit of cream on the tip of your nose when you take a breath.

“(Name)-san,” he says, and points to his nose. “You have something here.”

Your hand flies to yours and when you pull back, you see the frothy white on your fingertips.

“Ah, you’re right. Thanks, Keiji-kun.” 

_Kei-ji-kun_. The corners of your eyes and mouth are turned upwards in a small, genuine smile, purely out of a small gratitude.

He smiles back, ignoring his heart now pounding wildly in his chest against his ribcage, hoping you couldn’t hear it. “No problem.”

And then, the thought descends into his mind like a lone petal floating down from a tree. Insignificant, but that was its beauty, of how it just existed.

_You already know what she means to you._

There was only one answer. And there would only ever be one answer, despite him flailing around like a fish out of water about it.

_I’m in love with you._

Simple as that.

* * *

And then your world was quiet again.

When you go back to your apartment, your mind is reeling from today’s events. Thousands of images flash through your mind as you head to your desk, all playing from a film reel, swirling around like the beginning of a storm. You stare at the blank canvas for Yamada’s commission. Without much thought, you tone it a burnt umber, the color now somewhat less hated.

With a practiced hand you start squeezing out a fresh set of paints on your palette, lining them in your habitual order. Maquettes completely forgotten, you take your palette knife and mix a dark purple and a chartreuse. Using a dab of linseed oil on a large flat brush, you spread the colors out in three distinct blobs with a picture of wine grapes on your laptop as reference.

Once that was done, you looked at it puzzledly.

 _What are you doing?_ you asked.

It doesn’t answer.

_What will you become?_

It doesn’t answer.

But it was something that existed now, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)


	13. look up once in a while

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Could you show me someday? The stars in Hokkaido. I’d like to see them.”
> 
> //
> 
> The seed blossoms in your chest, warming up your entire body, and it’s not just because of the beer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ik i said i wouldn't do any more edits of the previous chapters... but i lied. first three have been given the TLC they were due, i'd highly advise reading over the first since there's a lot more stuff added. my apologies for doing so many post-publish edits.

If there’s anything you learned over the years, it’s that following a whim isn’t always a bad idea. Jump headfirst into the unknown and pray you’ll land safely on the other side is sometimes the only possible thing to do.

“Thank you for visiting Uematsu. I hope you come again soon,” Takahashi bows slightly at you behind the counter.

“Of course. Thanks again.”

You exit the art store, the frigid air of February stinging your face. In your bag today are a bunch of small, square canvases. This decision was definitely _not_ influenced by the sale Uematsu was having for said canvases. Definitely _not_ influenced by your lethargy towards carrying around a life-sized one.

No, it was because you wanted to try something new. That was the whim you were jumping into today.

If anybody paid attention to how you walked, they’d say you looked a bit more energetic when you headed back to your apartment.

* * *

Still, it took a while to get things off the ground.

In studio, you were agonizing over the canvases for a couple of days, until Tachibana told you to just “hurry up and get it over with, because I promise it won’t be as bad as you think!”

“But… I don’t really know where to begin,” you confess to her, holding up a blank one. “Do I want to touch this? Do I just leave this be and hang these up for my show instead and call it ‘My Time in Hokkaido: A Visual Story’? The possibilities are endless!”

“You know, for somebody as one-track minded like yourself, you have a lot of unnecessary worries.” She's starting a new, life-size piece, laying down the outline of androgynous people and animals intertwined together. Something about continuing her motifs of harmony and the coexistence between nature and humans. Big things that got her noticed.

“That so? That’s kinda harsh,” you reply casually. You hold up a canvas, tilting it to the side. “It’s called the brainstorming section. I’m waiting for divine intervention to strike me right now.”

Small canvases are deceptive to work on. Sure, they took up significantly less time, but there’s a certain balance between _too plain_ and _too detailed_ one had to take in account.

“Tell me how it works out then. We could all use some more of that.”

So here lies the question:

What could you show?

There were no big themes you wanted to talk about through your art. All you could use was your life, really. 

_Your life._

And then it hit you, with the force of Hokusai’s Great Wave on the two pitiful boats.

Colorful structures, fish scales, patterns, gelatinous blobs, and penguin flippers all flash by in your mind. Then to the cafe: frothy whipped cream, a bright red maraschino cherry, golden light spilling onto a wooden table.

The wave rise higher to encompass the people around you—Tachibana’s face, forever smudged with bits of paint and charcoal. Azumane’s large hands, threading through the tiniest of holes in a needle. Akaashi’s dark blue eyes, a calm sea of tranquility. Sugawara’s locks of gray hair, tousled by the wind.

In the midst of it all, a pair of golden, unblinking eyes, stares directly into your soul, beckoning you to come closer.

“Uh. Huh. I think I got now,” you say, pronouncing each word slowly, deliberately, as if they’d disappear if you made any sudden motion.

Tachibana gives you a curious look. “That divine intervention thing actually work out?”

It wouldn’t be wrong to say you were jealous of Tachibana. If _talent_ existed in the world, she had it in oodles; going above and beyond expectations, always creating something new each time. Of course, that didn’t come with its pitfalls: when she struggled, people were also holding her up to their own expectations. Somehow, she always pushed through, climbing to higher heights with every piece, never running out of ideas.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to know what it was like.

“Life,” you declare, as if you’ve solved the secret to it.

“...I’m not really sure what you mean, but if it’s from you, I think it’ll be pretty special," she assures you, now starting a new layer of paint.

“I appreciate it.” You turn back to your empty canvas, trying to piece together the storm of images in your mind.

Starting pieces can’t take too much hesitation. Another headfirst dive into the unknown, and you offer a prayer to whoever’s listening that it’ll turn out right.

With a tube of brilliant blue acrylic in hand, you squeeze some directly out onto a canvas and spread it around with a large brush to tone it. Once it’s completely dried down, you draw up the photos you took from the aquarium onto your laptop.

Using a flat brush, dipped with a creamy orange color, you start painting a blob-like shape, not particularly caring much for form or detail. Before long, a somewhat jellyfish-like _thing_ forms on the canvas. Behind it are a couple of red, thin squiggly lines trailing behind it. 

It looked strange once you held it up. Usually you didn’t dislike pieces right off the bat when you finished them, but this one you did. You went back and reapplied layers of paint until you had some inkling of satisfaction for the mass.

You pick up the next canvas from the bag, and this time tone it with a deep blue, adding bits of purple at the edges. From an objective standpoint, these pieces were just more abstracted than your previous body of work; the two glaring differences is the complete absence of a human figure and the complete disregard for the Nihonga style.

(they were very different.)

Was that supposed to mean anything? You’d still leave that to the critics to figure out. They could always come up and wax poetic about little details. 

For now, you’re trying to play god on the canvas. 

For now, nothing else mattered.

* * *

The man named Bokuto Koutarou slowly weaved his way into your life through bits of conversation and cans of beer on the balcony. The two of you sometimes have a quick chat late at night on whatever was suited for _friends_ —and even now, the word sounded strange.

You slide open the balcony door after finally calling it day (at a reasonable time for once) and you see the spiker standing near your side of the balcony. He turns his head immediately to you and waves, two cans of beer already in hand.

“Sasaki! Catch!” He throws a Sapporo Premium at you and you just barely manage to avoid it crashing onto your face. The tab cracks open with a hiss and you take a sip, standing somewhat near him.

“I’ve got a couple of new pieces going on thanks to the aquarium visit,” you greet him, in lieu of any pleasantries.

“Ooh!" Golden eyes light up. "Can I see them?”

“Once I think they’re good, sure.” You swirl the can in your hand, looking out to the distance. No stars tonight either.

“What do you do after a piece is finished? Are there competitions and stuff that you submit to?”

“I’ll be saving them for a show later in the year, but usually we send them off to exhibitions. Basically the same thing.”

“Woah, that’s cool! Can you let me know if you ever get something exhibited?”

“Er—I guess?” Your eyebrows furrow. “Why though?”

“I want to celebrate it with you!” he exclaims with a wide grin, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Maybe this was what he meant by supporting you. Like friends did.

So you don’t really have reason to reject him.

“Wait—” you hold up a hand. “Please, no parties for me.”

“Ah, that’s right, you don’t really like those." He waves aside your concern with ease. "No worries, I’ll go with whatever you want!”

A pause follows, but there's less tension in it.

“So how’s the FIVB-or-whatever coming along?”

Out of two-thirds part interest and one-third courtesy you ask this question but even if you hadn’t asked, he probably would’ve said something about it anyways.

He gives you a thumbs up. “Pretty good, if I do say so myself! I think we’ve got a pretty big chance of at least placing in semis!”

You return with a wry smile. “What about the whole winning situation?” 

“Of course, my dream is winning the whole thing." His forearms drop onto the railing, and you see the faint marks of bruises swirling on them. "But I think I’d be pretty proud if we placed in the top four. Brazil and Poland are strong teams! I hope we can play against them!” He forms a fist in anticipation.

From what you heard about Ryuujin Nippon from Bokuto’s ramblings, in recent years the team was in a slump and didn’t even qualify for the last FIVB. This year they snagged the qualification through the Asian Volleyball Confederation as the final round winners—in summary, they could finally play on an international stage, and Bokuto was proud to be leading the charge.

“And the... V. League season?”

“Also well! We just won against the Tridents the other day and now there’s a week left before the Final 6!” Bokuto rocks on the balls of his feet. “You should come watch us play someday! Maybe for the final weeks, since we’ll be in Oota!”

Bokuto spoke about winning the tournament brimming with such confidence you were sure he could do so, despite not knowing a thing about the sport.

“Oota? That’s… where again?”

Clearly, your Tokyo geography was lacking.

“Way down south from here, I checked just today!”

His wasn't the best either.

“We’ll see about that then,” you answer lightly, not entirely sure what accepting that offer would mean. “If everything I’m doing doesn’t kick me majorly in the ass.”

There's a breeze that blows by, carrying just a sliver of warmth.  
  


* * *

  
The opportunity to celebrate came earlier than you expected.

Tachibana called you early on a Saturday morning and you were barely able to register what she was going on about.

“Sacchi! I can’t believe it! Congratulations!” is blasted into your ear.

You blink. 

“What.”

“The Nitten? You actually got it! It says you’re one of the youngest ever to exhibit a piece!” Tachibana continues her too-loud shouting, a mix of excitement and elation in her voice.

What time was it right now? The fog in your brain is still thick and the numbers on your clock didn’t make any sense.

“Oh.” Your voice didn’t sound like your own.

“Is that really all you have to say? Well, I guess that’s like you. Azumane and I want to hold a dinner for you sometime afterwards, is that OK?”

You rolled over on your bed.

“Uh. Sure.”

Truthfully, you’re not entirely sure what you’re agreed to as your brain just managed to process the word Nitten.

“Alright! I’ll see you later today then! Again, super big congratulations!” She hangs up, apparently satisfied with your answer.

You enter the website onto your phone browser. Sure enough, Sasaki (Name), printed in bold, is listed under the Nihonga section.

_Oh._

Then it hit you.

A gallery run by Japan’s Art Academy, said to be the largest fine arts institution in Japan—that was the Nitten. After careful evaluation do pieces get to be exhibited there, and the academy, composed of 120 members, handpicked a select few works from great masters alongside up-and-coming artists.

In total, the exhibition is projected to garner around 200,000 spectators, with that number only growing as the years went on. You had submitted your gigantic piece from the midyear festival mostly out of diligence, not expecting to win anything.

But they chose you.

Meaning your _something_ that you possessed wasn’t just reserved for a small apartment of Ueno, it could stand on the national stage.

Meaning after four years of running toward the end line, you finally achieved recognition. This was something even Daisuke couldn’t ignore, with the over a hundred years’ of lineage and tradition the academy held.

So it was a pretty big deal.

 _This_ was it.

This meant you could finally make a name for _Sasaki (Name)_ in the art world, making your dent in the earth.

So why was it that you felt so apathetic towards it?

Three days pass by in a blur, with endless classmates and professors congratulating you each day. Thrusted into the spotlight with a thousand eyes watching your next move, observing you like a rare plant cultivated by a team of scientists. Your name is whispered on everybody's tongues, some congratulating you with pats on backs, others looking at you with hints of resentment.

So what happens next?

On the evening of the ceremony, you arrive at the gallery, a small, white building right next to the Ueno Royal Museum, wearing a semi-formal outfit you bought with a little help from Tachibana and Azumane (mostly Azumane) from earlier.

(“I think you’d look really good in this sweater and skirt! Add on with these tights, this necklace, and these boots, perfection!”

“I’m not dressing for Harajuku’s Hottest.”

Azumane comes back, holding up a much more normal outfit. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t find anything better than this…” 

“That’s plenty fine enough! Better than what Tachibana has!”

"Hey, I tried my best!"

you did end up wearing the necklace she picked.)

As soon as you enter the gallery, you’re immediately ushered to a door with a couple other attendees. Walking through a small hallway reveals a stage at the very center with the Japan Art Academy banner hanging from the ceiling. A decently-sized crowd of people are already present in the mini auditorium, filling the seats with casual chatter. You sit down at the designated area and shrug off your jacket.

The award ceremony itself was bland. 

_So_ bland.

You wanted to throw up in your seat at how atrociously dull the speeches could be and how much it stressed the importance of keeping the spirit of art alive, which you were all for, but not from the mouth of a seventy-year-old-man who looked on the verge of falling asleep. Not just one either, but _three_ in total, all saying the same thing. You wished that Tachibana, Akaashi, Sugawara, hell, you’d even take your neighbor to pop up next to you just to at least distract your mind from it all.

And just as you’re about to doze off—

“Now, would all of the exhibitors please come to the stage? We will be announcing each by category to hand you your award and to take a group photograph!” A middle-aged woman with curly hair and beady eyes says into the microphone after the final speech has finished.

_Lucky me, being in the first._

Flashes of white go off as you hold your plaque along with four others on the stage, standing next to the jury and the chairwoman of the Nitten, your mouth stretched into a too-large smile.

“Congratulations,” they all said with equally large grins. You’re not sure if it was for winning the award or being able to stand on the stage with them.

* * *

Japan’s art world is large.

Japan’s fine art world is a small country in that world.

Japan’s painting world is smaller. Perhaps one of the more populous cities in said country.

But Nihonga? Not even the largest district in the city.

Which meant once you know a good couple of people in the industry, you basically know everybody.

Of course, that meant everybody knows you too.

And added with your grandfather’s name, you were something like a pseudo-celebrity to them.

While nobody ever entered the art world solely to become famous (and who would subject themselves to that torture?), it couldn’t be denied that fame played a part in an artist’s career.

Which meant as soon as you walked outside the auditorium, you’re bombarded by a lot of people.

“Sasaki-sensei, good evening! I am so glad to see your painting in this fine exhibit!” A middle-aged man bows to you. He’s clearly wearing a wig. “I was a close follower of your grandfather’s work, and seeing his spirit live on in yours truly makes me happy, from the bottom of my heart.”

“I am deeply grateful for your words,” you bow back, though your words are burning a hole on your tongue. Who the hell was he, anyways?

_I really hate it here._

A blur of faces pass by you, most of them saying the same words or asking for photos. Everybody was content with the surface-level bullshit you were feeding them to keep them pleased, or they were approaching you with the surface-level bullshit out of obligation. A flurry of names are thrown out, none of them ever sticking in your brain. At some point, you even shook hands with the prime minister, congratulating you on “preserving the traditions of our country’s wonderful art.” Your mouth is stretched to the absolute limit and your heels are seriously starting to ache as you flit between people and the works on display.

Every time you tried to make your way to the gates of Heaven (the exit), somebody always approached you—was there a secret security team sending out actors posing as important figures to keep people in? Quite frankly, you were getting sick of how many times your grandfather got mentioned, shoving down the name in your throat. 

You hadn’t expected any of this. You’ve only been to a couple of local award ceremonies when you were still relatively unknown, and those were mostly pleasant experiences.

But this?

It made you sick. And the tiny finger sandwiches and flutes of champagne did nothing to help.

Was _this_ really what you wished for?

The art was the only saving grace in the stuffy place, though with all of the murmurs and chattering of people all around, you couldn’t bring yourself to focus on anything on display. Rows of calligraphy framed in gold and crafted works of glass and metal flash by. 

With some aimless wandering, you eventually find your own piece, the gigantic, six-figure one. You don’t even recognize it as your own—everything looks too _off_ , too _polished_ , too _not you_.

You look at the small plaque on the side, your name printed in bold, and underneath, “A Study of Six” as the title. The name felt odd on your tongue, the words like a foreign language you never quite mastered.

Was this really what you did? Everything connected on a logical level that you created it, but emotionally there was a strong disconnect. You don’t even remember the days you spent dedicated to this piece.

(was this really what you wanted to do?)

You had finally reached the top, yet why did it feel so disappointing?

“Sasaki-san. Good evening,” a deep voice behind you rumbles. You spin around, seeing an old man with hair tied in a low ponytail, wearing a dark blue suit and a floral tie.

“Nanase-san! Good evening,” you say, sighing a large breath of relief. “I’m glad to see a familiar face here.”

He chuckles. “I’m glad to hear that, and congratulations on getting this piece exhibited. Though, something tells me you’ve heard enough of that already.”

“You could say that again. If anybody tries to approach me again when I’m about to leave, I think I’ll just scream,” you mutter.

“Well, wouldn’t that be a delightful sight. I heard if you go out through that door”—Nanase points to the glass doors on your left—“you’ll enter the sculpture garden, and then you’ll be able to exit the building if you go straight forward. Mind you, I haven’t tried it myself.”

Had it not been for the hours of makeup delicately applied on you earlier, you would’ve bursted into tears right there.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Have a nice night.”

As soon as you confirmed nobody was around, you bolted the hell out of there.

* * *

  
  


_long story short i won something_

_and now i'm in the middle of ueno park_

_near the building called ‘nitten’ come if you want (22:35)_

**_loud neighbor_ **

_ONE SECOND!!!! (22:36)_

It wasn’t a second, but fifteen minutes later he finds you on a bench, half-illuminated by a streetlamp. He had to do a couple of double takes, because he’s never seen you in anything other than a shirt and sweatpants recently. A dark red blazer is half on your shoulders (weren’t you cold? even if it’s late february it’s still nighttime), revealing a solid black halter top underneath. One of your arms is on the top edge of the bench, the other hanging at your side. You’re wearing a pair of cream-toned pants, one leg crossed over the other. A black heel peeks out from the pant leg opening of the crossed leg. 

_Wow, she could step on—_

“Oh, Bokuto,” you nod to him in greeting. “Sorry for calling you out on such late notice.” Sitting more upright on the bench, you scooch over a small, almost imperceptible distance.

_Not right now, Koutarou!_

“I don’t mind! You look as stunning as ever,” he bows, and you let out a dry chuckle in response. “Actually, I’m feeling really out of place wearing my athletic gear seeing you like this, but I hope this here can make up for it—” Bokuto holds up a convenience store bag. “Thought it might be nice to have a late night snack.”

Your eyes immediately hone in on the plastic bag. “I like your mind.”

“Thanks!” He takes a seat next to you, handing you an onigiri. In one second flat, you’ve already unwrapped the plastic packaging and taken a large bite out of it. He takes out a bag of chips, opens it with a pop, and starts munching in silence.

He looks at the view spread out in front of him, the one you were so invested in earlier. Usually, Ueno Park turned into a tourist trap during the cherry blossom season, crowded with people, but now there’s hardly a soul around. The tree branches are still bare from any sort of leaves. Cold wind whistles around finding nothing to scatter, aside from the surface of the large lake sprawled out in front of you two, causing the dark water to ripple every now and then. In the distance are skyscrapers, their lights reflecting on the surface of the water, an ever-present reminder of the bustling city.

“So, what happened back in that exhibition?” He’s already gone halfway through the first bag.

“Bunch of old people,” you respond curtly, stretching out your arms and crinkling up the plastic wrapping in your hand. “Don’t like them.”

He nods his head firmly in agreement. “It’s always them.”

There's silence, but nobody rushes to fill it. You bite down on the onigiri, letting his words sink into the night air.

“The thing that I like about this place is that on really clear nights, you can see the stars.” You point towards the dark sky washed with light pollution. “Oh, wait. Ignore that moving one though.”

Sure enough, Bokuto sees a couple of tiny, miniscule twinkling lights in the distance.

“Oh, wow! I’ve never really noticed the stars before,” he replies, squinting his eyes as he leans forward. “Seems like there’s a lot tonight!”

“Nah, these are nothing. Back in Hokkaido, you could see a lot of them, way more than here,” and he couldn’t help but notice the hint of nostalgia in your tone as your head lolls back. “All you have to do is look up to see them.” 

So maybe that’s why he asks, “Could you show me someday? The stars in Hokkaido. I’d like to see them.”

You glance at him, and his eyes are still focused on the night sky, pupils zipping back and forth, searching for more of the specks of light. _He has a really nice side profile,_ floats into your mind.

“Not gonna make any promises. But… I’ll try, I guess.”

A vague pledge made to the stars. As you wonder how many of those you’d made, you take out another rice ball from the bag.

“Then I’ll be looking forward to it!”

A cold gust of wind blows between the two of you, and he unconsciously moves closer to you, taking out another bag of chips. The onigiri had absolutely nothing of note, really. Pickled plum. But you still kept eating it.

And maybe it’s because of how late it is, or maybe out of a shred of gratitude for Bokuto—

“I didn’t like the piece there,” you slip out quietly, just barely above the sound of chips crunching.

“Really? Which one was it?”

“Did you see the biggest one at my gallery? That one.”

“Oh! I remember! That took me by surprise at how big it was!” His eyes light up in recognition, but is immediately overwritten by a look of confusion. “But why’d you not like it?”

Your heel kicks the ground, sending up a cloud of dust. “Just didn’t really recognize it as my own anymore. You know how I talked about those new pieces? That giant painting is nothing like those. It’s as different as soup curry and regular curry.” 

He doesn’t know what the difference between the two are, so he keeps quiet.

“But… I’m not really worried about that now. Coming to this ceremony actually helped me realize a lot of things,” you continue, biting the bottom of your lip. “Like I really do hate most old men, and that sitting in an auditorium for two hours isn’t my thing at all. Oh, and finger sandwiches suck. Those little fuckers aren’t filling at all. Whoever serves them at events should be fired.” 

Something inside you had withered away tonight, left forever in the stifling atmosphere of the Nitten, in the bubbles of the tasteless champagne, in your art that was hung up there.

But for some reason, it was like a heavy weight lifted off your shoulders.

“Ooh, seconded!” Bokuto chimes in. “Down with finger sandwiches!”

“Down with finger sandwiches, indeed,” you echo, the wisp of a smile on your lips. “Onigiri are the best.” You hold up your half-eaten one in mock toast. He returns with holding up his chips.

Another breeze passes by, chilling you to the bone. You decide to rise from your spot, crinkling up the second wrapper in your hand and shoving both into your blazer pocket.

“I’m gonna start heading back,” you say, jerking your thumb in the direction of the complex.

“I’ll go with you then!” Bokuto immediately stands up, still holding his bag of chips. “It’s getting cold out here, anyways. Let me walk you back!”

“We’re going to the same place,” you point out, exasperation thick in your voice.

“Then you can say you’re walking me back too!” A grin flashes by.

Clearly, he was set on the idea of walking to the apartment _together._

“Hallelujah,” you say to nobody in particular.

* * *

As the two of you are about to enter your respective apartments—

“Hey. Uh, thanks for tonight,” you say, hand on the doorknob. “For the food. And all.”

“No problem!” He beams, and there’s a certain warmth in it you can’t quite place in words. “I’m your friend after all!”

Again, you think about the lines. The boundaries between neighbors, acquaintances, _friends._ And how little it really mattered right now.

You laugh, and it’s not just at how cheesy Bokuto sounded. “Woah, slow down there, you’re barely tolerable.”

It’s a pretty average laugh, but there’s no restraint or slyness in it. 

Genuine, albeit a bit small.

Bokuto wants to hear more of it.

“One day you’ll finally recognize how amazing I am,” he declares with a confident glint in his eye.

“Yeah, when I get seven hours of sleep maybe I will. See ya.” With a raised hand, you wave him goodbye and enter your apartment, gently shutting the door behind you.

“Good night, Sasaki,” Bokuto whispers with a smile, and heads inside.  
  


* * *

When Tachibana said she was inviting you out to dinner with Azumane, you didn’t expect two more people to show up.

“So, can you remind me why it’s the five of us in a restaurant together right now?”

The exact limit of how many people you’d be seen out in public with.

Tachibana’s bright eyes turn to you, her now-faded purple bob in waves today. “I invited Azumane here, and then he told me you knew Sugawara-san, who was already planning to hold a surprise dinner with you, and then he invited Akaashi-san, so now we’re all here!”

‘Here’ meant a small restaurant nearby Ueno station, a week after the Nitten ceremony. The five of you are seated at a wooden table in the back area, away from most of the evening bustle. The speaker from somewhere is playing an ad—” _Warm your heart with a classic Hokkaido treat!”_ You’re not entirely sure how it’d work out.

“I’m perfectly well aware that Azumane and Suga know each other, but I didn’t realize Suga knew Kei—er, Akaashi-kun over here,” you say, eyes narrowing conspicuously.

“I used to frequent the tea shop he worked at,” Akaashi explains, pushing up his glasses. “I liked the tea they served, so I got in touch with Sugawara-san after he quit.”

“You…” Your head turns to Sugawara dramatically, like they did in old thriller movies when the culprit was revealed. “Don’t tell me, you’ve actually been doing deliveries to other people? And here I thought I was special!”

The man in question chooses to wink at you. “That aside, you haven’t been eating out a lot, haven’t you? Think of this as a celebration party!” Sugawara, who’s sitting adjacent to you, beams in his typical motherly way. “Tonight, we dine on ginger pork!”

Azumane lets out a half-exasperated chuckle, taking a sip from his beer (which isn’t an Asahi, ironically). “Not that again…”

“In the first place, that Nitten thing is damn overhyped. Was bored out of my mind during the awards ceremony. When old people talk, they really like to go on forever!” You rub your forehead, the excruciating memory still seared fresh in your mind.

“But isn’t it still good publicity?” Tachibana asks. “You’ve only ever applied to the local art exhibitions in Tokyo, haven’t you? Wasn’t this an all-Japan one?”

Tachibana’s art appealed more to the general masses, so her interactions with old men were probably more limited than yours.

“I mean, I guess? But have you ever gone through that period where you just want to pull a John Baldessari and burn all of your works? That was me during the ceremony.” A lightbulb goes off in your head and you lean forward in your seat, elbows on the table, hands clasped right underneath your chin. “Wait, that might be a good piece of art to make actually—I should talk to Rina-chan before she leaves...”

“There’s no need to do that!” The woman next to you cries out in indignance. “Please stop saying scary things! Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re being real or not, even if I’ve known you for a while now!”

Azumane nods his head in agreement. “I understand what you mean though. I’m going through one of those periods right now, actually—and with the graduation show coming up, it makes me feel a bit nervous…” his form slouches over, as if he’s about to throw up.

“That’s just you being insecure, for crying out loud! Just like back in high school! I’m sure your works are great!” Sugawara interjects with a loud huff. “Actually, I know for sure, because I’ve seen your stuff before!”

“Sugawara-san’s right! You need more self-confidence,” says Tachibana with a fervent nod. “But Sacchi over here is going through an evolution!” she announces with an intense sparkle in her eye.

“Evolution, huh? That sounds cool!” A look of genuine curiosity mixed with admiration crosses Azumane’s face. “I’m excited to see how it’ll turn out!”

“And you’re exaggerating things over here, I swear. Evolution, my ass, you’re sounding like Professor Oonishi,” you retort, though there’s no malice in your voice. “I still remember his crying when Sakamoto came back from Wakunan and acted like he was our generation’s next messiah.”

“Oh, I remember that!” She takes a sip from her glass. “That was a pretty strange week. Sakamoto looked on the verge of tears whenever I saw him.”

“Where was my credit in giving him the idea in the first place?"

“That’s the thing you’re worried about?”

The waiter brings out your orders, and the five you immediately delve in without another word.

“Mm, I’ve always liked how this place makes their ramen,” Azumane says in between chews. “Though I guess I’m also pretty hungry right now.”

“You’ve always liked that in the past, haven’t you?” Sugawara looks up from his dish, a bright red attack on the eye. “Whenever we went out, you’d always order that.”

“Well, now it reminds me of back home, so…” A small smile forms on Azumane’s face. “Besides, you’re still eating that mapo tofu, aren’t you?”

He chuckles. “That’s true. Old habits die hard.”

“We aren’t even hitting our quarterlife crisis yet,” you jab, taking a breath from your dish. “And you all are already sounding like a bunch of middle-aged men.”

“I feel like I’m just in constant crisis mode though…”

“Oh, sorry for mentioning it.”

Sugawara shifts the conversation. “By the way, Akaashi-kun, are you still playing volleyball?” he asks, eyes glancing at the youngest man.

The man who had been silent for the whole time until now turns his head up at the mention of his name. “No, I’ve stopped in college. I'm currently working as an intern in Shueisha,” Akaashi answers.

“Wow, really? I wasn’t expecting that! But I guess we’re all in the same boat right now,” replies Azumane, now rolling up noodles with his chopsticks. “Our university doesn’t even have a sports team, so volleyball was just out of the question.”

“Do you want to be a manga artist?” Tachibana’s eyes light up at this lifeline thrown in.

Akaashi shakes his head slightly. “Nothing of the sort, I’m just an editor right now.”

The tip of the wooden chopsticks touches Sugawara’s pursed lips. “Editor, huh… I remember one of Karasuno’s alum now pursuing a job in the manga industry, I wonder if you two will ever be in contact?”

“Oh, the Little Giant, right?” Azumane smiles, a fond look on his face. “Wow, that brings me back! Hinata was always looking up to him…”

“Right, right?” Sugawara’s eyes sparkle. Maybe it was something about the restaurant’s lighting that made people’s eyes more sparkly than usual. “It would be pretty cool if the two of you worked on something! Shueisha’s one of the biggest companies out there for publishing manga, right? That's pretty amazing!”

“Yes, it is." Akaashi takes a sip from his water. Despite the praise, his face remains impassively neutral. "I’ve already been assigned to an artist, but perhaps I’ll be working with him in the future.”

And you’re about to ask just when this happened because you hadn’t heard any of that news—

“I can’t really remember if he was, honestly…” Sugawara’s eyes narrowed in thought, but gave up after a couple seconds. “Oh, speaking of people that Hinata looked up to, he was pretty friendly with your ace, right? And now he’s Sasaki’s neighbor!” He beams at you again. What he’s proud of you for this time around, you’re not even sure.

“Oh, so he’s your neighbor? He was a pretty high energy guy… what’s he like?” Azumane asks.

“I wanna know too! You always complained about him!” Tachibana adds on, setting down her skewer of chicken. “You haven’t mentioned him recently, I was wondering what happened.”

So the chance to ask Akaashi passes away just like that.

“Bokuto? He’s just an annoying friend, that's all. But, I guess I kinda have to thank him for taking me to the aquarium, otherwise I would’ve been stuck in my block for even longer than necessary.” You take a long sip of your beer, somewhat flat now.

The whole table drops dead silent, your words apparently killing the conversation.

Tachibana’s the first to speak up. “Wait… could that have possibly been… a date?!”

You look at her in shock, blinking once, twice. 

_What?_

“Woah woah woah, slow down there, you’re skipping too many steps!” You unconsciously lean away from Tachibana in shock, shoulder just barely grazing Akaashi on your right in the process. “Where are you going with that line of thought?” 

“But I didn’t know that neighbors took each other out to aquariums,” Sugawara adds, wiggling his eyebrows.

“It was more like an apology for all the mess he’s caused me over the past half a year or so. Nothing like what you two are thinking of.” You try your best to shut down the conversation topic.

“Hmm, then let me know if this loverboy of yours—”

“Don’t call him that, he’s only barely tolerable, you’re the one having a more loverboy situation than I am—”

“I told you to not bring this up—”

“Oh, you still haven’t told Daichi yet?” Azumane chimes in. Always with a genuine look on his face, this time of curiosity.

“Well, you know how he is! Annoyingly dense and only thinks about his job,” Sugawara pouts. “But… I might try over the summer.”

“You better actually follow through with that then,” you grin devilishly. “Isn’t that what you said last year too?”

“You really… Look here, it’s just hard, alright?” he sighs, and you have a feeling that wasn’t the only reason why. “But I never thought you would be so invested in my love life.” His eyebrow quirks up. “Could it be because you’re having trouble with your—”

“ _Oi,_ ” you cut in, gritting your teeth and clenching your chopsticks so hard they’re about to snap. “What did I just say? We’re friends. _Friends_. Repeat that word with me, alright?”

“Alright, alright. _Friends_ , we’ll say that.” Sugawara doesn’t push any further, but his self-satisfied smile reveals more than enough.

“Say, is Akaashi-kun seeing anybody?” asks Tachibana out of the blue, mid-bite in a _chikuwa._

"Boundaries would like a word with you."

“The conversation’s already gotten to this point, is there harm in asking?”

“Ah, er, no,” Akaashi stammers, choking on his food and immediately taking a drink from his glass. “I’m a bit busy with everything going on.” 

“The rest of us really don’t either,” she chimes in agreeance. “All too much of a hassle.”

Azumane perks up at this. “But, Tachibana. Aren’t you—”

“It’s an _open relationship,_ ” she replies casually, though with how her hand grips her glass tighter, there was probably something more to it. “But how did the aquarium go?" Tachibana turns back to you. "I don’t think I’ve been there in a while.”

“You know. Fish and penguins and jellyfish. They have a couple eels there too.”

“Oh, speaking of fish—” Azumane pulls out his phone. “Suga’s already seen this, but one of my old high school friends is off in Italy right now doing marlin fishing. He caught a pretty big one the other day…”

The night flies by with more banter and trivial conversation topics; but it felt cozy enough for a sleepy restaurant tucked away in a corner of Tokyo. Underneath the warm glow, everybody’s faces are flushed pink—whether from the heat or their beers, you’re not sure. You look at their smiling faces (even Akaashi’s lips were curved upwards), and a strange, warm feeling is seeded in your chest, something you haven’t felt in a long while. A soft rock song starts playing from the speaker, singing about the connections people had with others.

Who knows where all of you would be next year?

All too quickly, the purgatory between teenager to adult was over and the four of you (except Akaashi) would become full-fledged adults once April came around. 

It was over now, wasn’t it?

And suddenly, you wished you spent more time with them. 

You’re glad you had at least this to hold on to.

“Sasaki, are you alright?” Sugawara asks, noticing your silence.

The seed blossoms in your chest, warming up your entire body, and it’s not just because of the beer.

“No, don’t mind me. So, as I was saying…”

And just maybe, you didn’t mind loud places once in a while.

* * *

Akaashi knew.

“I’m sorry you had to be dragged in that mess,” you say to him once everybody’s out of the restaurant. It's a time too late at night, but he garners you’ll most likely stay up. “All of them have no sense of boundaries. Especially Tachibana."

“I don’t mind, it was a nice change of pace,” he replies. “But I am surprised you went out to the aquarium with Bokuto-san.”

He knew from the look on your face you forgot about the promise that day.

“I’m surprised too, honestly. But it’s like what you said to me, he’s a pretty inspiring and loud guy, all things considered.” A small but knowing smile forms on your lips as you look to somewhere in the distance. “Though... something tells me he’s honestly not that simple-minded.” 

His eyebrow quirks up. “How much have the two of you talked?”

“Not that much. We just chat occasionally on the balcony,” you reply breezily, starting to walk to the bus stop and he follows right behind you. He knows it’s more than you let on. 

“What were they talking about with your art?”

That was something he didn’t know.

“Nothing too big. I was in a bit of a block a couple weeks ago— _had it really been that long_ , you wondered briefly—but it’s all OK now.” You raise your hand at him in farewell as the bus stop comes into view. “See you later then.”

You start walking down the street.

His hands clench.

And Akaashi knew that it was for the best to forget about those sorts of promises, made when the two of you still existed as just fragments barely existing in the world, before reality started shaping you both.

Things were different now.

“Wait,” he calls out, before he’s even registered it.

You finally turn around to face him, a couple meters away.

But even then, there were feelings that lasted throughout the years.

And Akaashi knew this was one of them.

“(Name)-san,” he begins. “You’ve always been an inconsiderate, impolite, and reckless person. Sometimes I wonder how you’re still alive right now.”

Your face morphs into a shocked expression. “What—”

“But despite all of that, I’m still”— _in love with you,_ is what he’s about to say, but stops himself in time—“your friend. I know I may not be of much use in these sorts of situations, but you can at least talk to me about it,” comes out instead.

He looks at you levelly, but is desperately searching for your answer on your face. People push past him, but he doesn’t move from his spot. A stoplight turns green and a stream of cars rush by in the distance. Your eyes flicker with something he couldn’t read. Why was it that he couldn’t tell what you were thinking of when it mattered?

“Calls go two ways,” you finally say, barely above the sound of the night, returning his gaze. “You didn’t tell me about being an editor. Well, it's whatever, I guess. Thanks for coming out.”

And he could only watch your figure disappear amongst the crowd, underneath the soft glow of the city lights.

 _What else am I supposed to do?_

You were so close to him tonight, Akaashi wonders distantly, _yet why do you feel so far away?_

* * *

On a large screen plastered onto a skyscraper, a TV anchorwoman is doing the nightly report with a polite yet detached tone. _We can only wish for the best. Next on the news..._

You told the anchorwoman that things were moving again, ever so slowly.

Of course, she couldn’t hear. But that was alright.

You start your walk back home, nothing but what you were going to do next on your mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longest chapter yet (most out of el*ction stress), hope you all enjoyed!


	14. march comes in like a lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there’s a word to describe it, he’d use pure, unbridled affection.
> 
> It sickened him.

_Next on the news._

Out of the “courtesy of her heart” Tachibana gave you two tickets to the Tokyo Fuji museum with strong emphasis that “you should take somebody with you rather than use them twice” so out of the courtesy of your own heart, you invited Bokuto along. Mostly out of payback to the aquarium visit.

“Of course I’ll go! But are you sure you don’t want to give this to somebody at your school instead?” he asked you on the balcony. It’s nighttime, like always. The breeze that flies by is now a couple degrees warmer.

“We’ve all been a lot of times already,” you replied, rocking your can of beer in your hand, the condensation on the metal dampening your fingertips. “Besides, everybody else is too busy.”

The idea of inviting Akaashi flashed by but you weren’t exactly sure if you wanted to after _that_ night.

Thus, Bokuto and you ended up visiting the museum. 

“That one’s definitely gotta be Van Gogh!”

“No, that’s very much Monet. You didn’t say Da Vinci this time, so I guess that’s an improvement.”

“Aw, darn! Next time then!”

The two of you are speaking in hushed tones, one significantly louder than the other, walking amongst the Impressionist-era artworks covering the cream-toned walls. All languid scenery of everyday life, painted with muted colors. There’s an old woman with a hunched back and flowery scarf, her gnarled hands holding a cane. A group of high school students sitting on the floor, sketching from a Cézanne. A tour guide of polite demeanor, guiding around a group of foreigners. A burly security guard, surveying the whole scene. 

“Hey!” he exclaims, excitedly pointing at a large painting hung up near the center. “That one kind of reminds me of your white one! Except in pink!”

“Oh, Morisot. I like her a lot, so that’s pretty natural,” you reply, walking over to the painting of a woman wearing a rose-colored dress. It’s formed with loose pastel marks and muted colors. You look at the face, her serene gaze staring out to somewhere in the distance.

“She’s a pretty cool woman. Her first exhibition was in the Salon de Paris, and even though critics back then looked down upon her work, her colleagues saw how serious she was. Those were people like Degas, Renoir, even Monet. _And_ , even though her style took from Manet—she married his brother, by the way, she still kept to her own vision and brought what only she could say—” Your eyes widen in embarrassment and you turn to look at him.

“Sorry, I’m rambling now. You didn’t come here for an art history lesson, didn’t you?” you chuckle apologetically.

“I don’t mind! It’s all really interesting stuff! You’re like my personal tour guide, so tell me everything you want!”

Truthfully, Bokuto completely blanked out at your words, the names entering one ear and exiting straight out the other. What was the difference between Monet and Manet? Weren’t they the same person? Was the Salon de Paris a barber shop? 

But a small smile forms on your face, and he thinks maybe it was okay to lie just a little bit. 

You wander over to the next painting. “Did you know? The Impressionist era was actually really unconventional for its time. The name comes from a satirical piece critiquing it,” you say, looking at the work in front. It's a view of a house and its garden. 

“Huh. I wouldn’t have known that all,” he muses. “This looks pretty nice. Why’d they not like it?”

The second part was another lie. But if meant he could hear you talk some more, a small one never hurt anybody.

“People back then didn’t like these simple, everyday paintings. It allowed for artists to be more free in their works too, since they’re not trying to capture everything realistically. Though, people were then fed up with this type of work and moved to even more abstract stuff.” A dry chuckle escapes your lips.

“Really? What were those like?” he asks.

Your thumb jerks towards the exit. “Then let’s head on over to the 20th century stuff.”

With only one wrong turn, you manage to lead Bokuto to where the Cubists, Expressionists, Surrealists, and everything in between were. There’s some more people scattered about the exhibit—another couple, a group of students, a small family—admiring the pieces on display, all with little base in the real world. You stand in front of a painting of a man in a suit against a red-orange background, but with his head replaced by a green apple.

“This is Rene Magritte,” you announce. “Belgian surrealist artist with one hell of a body of work _._ ”

Bokuto’s eyes blink owlishly at the painting. He stands in front of it, his face forming an increasingly perplexed expression.

“Um… what does this mean?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.

“Good question.” You put your hands on your hips. “Absolutely nothing.”

“I see…”

He didn’t get it.

“Well, things like this are really up to the viewer’s interpretation.” You cross your arms. “Magritte didn’t ever have a set meaning in his works. He was the one who did the painting of a pipe with the words ‘ _This not a pipe_ ’ written underneath.”

Bokuto’s mouth opens and closes a couple times, but no words come out.

“Magritte said that you couldn’t stuff the pipe, so if he wrote ‘ _This is a pipe_ ’, it would technically be wrong,” you explain. “He was a pretty wild thinker.”

“Wow… art is pretty expansive…” is all he manages to say in the end with a slow nod. You can practically see the cogs in his eyes spinning around, trying to process it all. 

“This isn’t even half the crazy stuff out there. If you’re really interested, I can take you to the modern art one or the Mori,” Your voice drops a couple decibels quieter as you shove your hands into your pockets. “The Yayoi Kusama one’s also pretty fun. Got a bunch of mirrors and all.”

Happiness instantly blooms across his face, lighting up his eyes. “I’ll be looking forward to it!” he says with a grin. And you knew it wasn’t just out of courtesy; he took words like those seriously.

“Then come on.” You nod to the end of the hallway. “They’ve got swords and armor from the feudal era here too.”

The two of you start the walk, and you dimly wonder just exactly what you’ve resigned yourself to.

_Next on the news._

The scene changes, props move, new people come in. Somewhere in the distance, a director yells “Action!”

The two of you are now seated in a small booth at the back of his favorite restaurant, barely avoiding the dinner rush. He wanted to take you here as his gesture of appreciation, which only after relentless questioning did you give in, because he did offer to pay for everything. A grill with meat sizzling on top is laid out in front of you, the smoke drifting lazily into the warm air.

“Don’t you have other friends to drag along with you?” you ask, a bit wary of Bokuto’s intense hovering over the grill. Like a protective mother bird guarding its nest.

“One of them has a desk job and goes overtime a lot so he’s pretty busy, the others I see every day, so no, not really!” His eyes don’t leave the meat. “Besides, I don’t have any friends who do art, so I like talking to you!”

The thing about spending time with Bokuto Koutarou was that the more you learned about him, the more you were left confused. A complex enigma wrapped in a layer of simplicity. Your friendship with him was growing into something you were unsure of the outcome. A bag of mystery seeds—either a blooming flower or a poisonous plant. Or maybe just a common houseplant.

With dextrous and practiced fingers, Bokuto deftly snatches a couple cuts and places it in his bowl in one swift motion. His cheeks bulge with meat and he swallows before meeting your eyes.

“There something wrong?” he asks, snapping you out of your daze.

“Huh?” You blink slowly, and you realize your hand holding the chopsticks is midway-reaching out for food. “Oh, uh, I was just curious why you’re so close to the grill,” you comment, eyes trailing down to his hands. “Kind of like you’re on the attack or something.”

“Oh! Sorry, it’s just an old habit,” he replies. “Back when we did training camp lunches, it was every man for themselves out there when we had meat! You had to be fast, otherwise it’d all be gone!” He scratches his head. “But, I guess with you I don’t have to do that, huh?”

A small smile spreads on your lips and you grab for some food. “Rest assured I won’t be stealing anytime soon, but I can’t guarantee how much I’ll eat.”

He grins. There's a twinge of something predatory-like in it. “If that’s a challenge, I’ll gladly take you on!”

You give a hum of affirmation as you dig into your meal. How long has it been since you had something substantial to eat, without the backdrop of a celebration?

How long has it been since you hung out with somebody, solely just for the sake of hanging out?

That _was_ what these—hangouts, trips, whatever they were called—were, right?

“So, I think yakiniku should definitely be eaten like meat, meat, rice, meat meat, rice,” Bokuto says with a dead-serious look in his eyes, clicking his chopsticks together. “Absolutely no exceptions.”

“Are you a carnivore or something? You have to throw in some sort of vegetable in the mix,” you argue, picking up a bite of rice.

“Who eats vegetables at a barbecue though?” He cocks his head to the side in question. “If it’s grilled, isn’t the nutritional value lowered or something?”

“It’s about the texture.” You swallow down the rice before responding, picking out your next words from memory. “You need something crunchy in between the softness of the rice and the chewiness of the meat. A complete flavor profile. That’s where the vegetables come in.”

Bokuto’s golden eyes widened in utter shock.

“Wow… I don’t think I’ve ever thought of that before! How’d you figure this out?” he asks in a loud whisper, as if it was some sort of secret only the two of you were privileged to know.

“My mother’s a chef, you can trust me on this.”

“Ooh! I see! So can you cook then?”

“Well—” you tap your chopsticks absentmindedly on the side of the plate. “Good enough to not be a complete walking disaster of a human, though I usually just order takeout. It’s just easier. Though if I’m in the mood, I’ll cook up something.”

“Wow!” Bokuto’s eyes glimmer with admiration. You’re not sure just what was admirable about it. “The only thing I really know how to make is an egg! It took me a good couple tries to do that too, since for the longest time I didn’t even know how to crack an egg! And the first time I did it, I almost burned down the house!”

Your mouth drops open, a look of confusion and bewilderment on your face. “ _Only_ an egg? How old are you again?”

“Twenty-three!” he declares proudly, thumping his fist on his chest. “I mostly eat out now, anyways. Like what we’re doing.”

“Again, aren’t you a national athlete? Are you sure that’s smart of you?” you reply drily, massaging your forehead with your free hand.

He shrugs, continuing to devour his food at astonishing speed. Pretty soon, his second plate is completely cleared. “My trainer said as long as I make healthy choices, it’ll be alright! Something about sodium and minerals…”

“Ah, I see,” is all you manage.

A beat later: “Wait. Don’t tell me the only egg dish you know is tamagoyaki.”

“Oh, how’d you know?”

“You really…”

There’s a momentary pause as Bokuto drops a couple cuts of meat onto your plate. More than you could stomach, probably. 

“So, is everything alright now?” he asks, changing the conversation topic in an instant.

The other thing about Bokuto: he’s always toeing the boundary between _just enough_ and _too much_. Because Bokuto too, was unraveling your threads through these casual hangouts. Always asking for answers. Because the third meeting between the two of you, he had gotten just that.

As if it’s natural to do so.

“What kind of a question is that?” you ask, your chopsticks aimlessly pushing around your food.

He continues to stare at you, unblinking. “You looked pretty out of it on your balcony.”

You feign ignorance. “Since when?” 

“You know when I’m talking about,” is all he says. All he needs to say, really.

Truthfully, you’re not even sure what to label how you fit with Bokuto anymore. A common houseplant wouldn’t come forth from this development, because there was nothing _common_ about it. He knew more about you in the span of these three months than you’d like to admit.

And that, you think, was probably the scariest thing about him.

“Well,” you begin, picking up the piece of meat and examining it. A futile act to stall time. “It’s still pretty rough. I think I might’ve majorly fucked myself over with what I want to do now.”

“That bad?” Genuine concern rises in his tone. “That doesn’t sound alright at all!”

You stifle a laugh behind your hand. “That’s just how these things work. One moment you have nothing, the next it feels like everything’s crashing on you.”

“But you’re not alone going through it,” Bokuto replies with a knowing look. “I’m here for you, after all!” His leg knocks against yours underneath the table. Whether by accident or intentional, you’re not sure.

Something in your chest thumps a bit weirdly at those words.

“Yeah, you are,” you echo. You eat something to push it down.

_Next on the news._

You bought canvases and painted them in a frenzy, as there was nothing else you could focus on. Yamada’s request was sent out a week before the deadline, to which she received with a pleasantly surprised look on her face (at least, that was what the optimistic side of you thought).

All of your previous fears about legacy, recognition, and pleasing the public melted away with each brushstroke, disappeared with each layer of paint. They seemed like such useless things to worry about, looking back at it. After that Nitten ceremony, you couldn’t care less about what the public eye had thought. It was a laughable, miserable show that had never been your goal.

In fact, the whole art block was laughable. 

Why was that? 

Why were you so afraid?

None of it made sense now, the way you were too timid to take a step out of your comfort zone, the way you struggled against the inevitable currents of change, the way you held everything with a sense of fragility. All pieces of glass that you treasured so tightly.

You didn’t become an artist to be afraid of the world. 

You reworked paintings if something felt off, sometimes completely restarting hours of work until they looked passable. It was a grueling process, and sometimes you were too frustrated at some pieces to look at them for a while. But all of them started to grow on you the more time passed—they may have been splotches of colors, lines, shapes, and patterns, but they were _yours_ and nobody else’s. 

And the fire.

It coursed through your veins, reaching all the way to the tips of your fingers. Some days it would cool down on its own, as if it had dunked itself in an ice bath during the night, but other days it was so uncontrollably hot, one could see the smoke rising from your nails.

Was this what your grandfather had felt too, the pleasantness of creation?

Your hands moved instinctively through years of training, guided by your wordless thoughts. Each work was your own invention, your own soul spilled onto the canvas.

The fire burned down the tower you had painstakingly created for the past four years, all over the course of a week, leaving nothing but a pile of ash and smoke dancing listlessly in the air.

“I’m using 130 small canvases,” you announced to Professor Kimura the day you finally turned in your form, right on the deadline.

“130?” His eyebrows raise questioningly as he scans over the form. It looked tiny in his large, gnarled hands, and practically insignificant when he placed it on a stack of papers at the corner of his desk. Accepted. “Even if they were small, that’s still quite the work to put in now until the show. It’s a nearly impossible feat. Besides, it seems like your idea has strayed quite far from your thesis.”

Your thesis—roughly less than a year ago, you decided your body of work would focus on the human experience. Or something vague like that, you couldn’t even remember the details about it anymore.

“Not impossible, just improbable. This isn’t all that different from what I originally intended,” you reply, trying to keep your cool. “I already have thirty-some done. It’ll be fine.”

Kimura’s dark eyes meet yours for seconds that stretch out to eternities.

In those eternities, you thought about your grandfather’s larger-than-life works. The waterfalls that flew down from the sky. The rivers that cascaded to nowhere. The lily pads and birds that you could’ve sat on, used them to travel to the hidden places in the clouds. At twelve years old when you first went to a museum, his works sent you a jolt of electricity so shocking, you knew this was the only thing you could do. 

If you could never reach that, then you’d find your own way.

The eternities end. Kimura’s eyes soften almost imperceptibly.

“Get it done then. I’m counting on you.”

And just as you’re about to leave—

“Kimura-sensei. Anybody ever told you before you reminded them of a mafia boss?” you ask, hand on the doorknob.

He peers at you curiously, adjusting his glasses. “Funny you say that. I think your grandfather said the same thing once, if I’m not mistaken. I’m not really sure where it came from, and I’m not really sure if I want to know either.”

The corners of your mouth quirk upwards.

“Thanks for the information.”

You’re now back in your apartment. _Next on the news_.

Truth be told, Bokuto doesn’t think he knows enough about you at all.

After the museum trip, you didn’t invite him to anywhere else, so he invited you out to dinner. If this was the game you wanted to play, he’s more than willing to play. If it could help you in just any way, he’d take that.

Except there was radio silence on your end afterwards.

Maybe he was being impatient; Akaashi told him that was one of his weaknesses once. Still, he’s leaving for Shizuoka in a couple days from now, and he wants to see you one last time before that. Was that wrong of him to do?

He doesn’t think so.

So that’s why Bokuto finds himself in front of your apartment, knocking on the door.

You crack open the door just a bit at first, then swing it wider upon seeing him.

“Bokuto. What’s up?” you ask him through a large yawn. It’s late at night, but he knows you wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon.

“So I’m leaving in a couple days,” he begins, a bit surprised at how quiet his voice is. “And… you said that you’d let me see your pieces from the aquarium once they’re done, so I was wondering if they are now?”

“Uh.” A couple seconds of pause as you stare blankly.

Then—“Sure, I guess. Come on in,” like he’s been given access to the secret code for a forgotten treasure.

You swing the door open fully and he steps inside, immediately covering his nose at the strong smell.

“That would be the turpentine,” you say. “I try to keep the place ventilated and all, but it never does go away. Sorry about that.”

“No!” He waves his hand. “Perfectly fine! This is nothing compared to the locker room!”

It’s actually even worse, but he steps inside further anyways.

Your apartment’s a mess. There were no two ways around it.

Piles of canvases line against the walls, all ranging from large to just a head or so shorter than himself. There’s a faded, dark blue two-seater in what he assumes is the living room, where smaller canvases and sketchbooks are stacked haphazardly on top of it. Some abstract objects he presumes are sculptures occupy random corners. There’s a sheet of plastic covering the ground, covered with paint splatters. Probably for easier cleanup.

Bokuto’s never seen a studio before, but he thinks this probably what it’s like.

“You can take a seat at the couch or something,” you say, motioning to the couch. “Feel free to move the stuff on it. Mind drinking tea?” you say, halfway to the kitchenette. “I’ve still got a lot of hot water left.”

“Go ahead!”

With great care Bokuto sets aside the stuff on it and takes another look around your place, a mixture of fascination and curiosity on his face.

Your desk leans against the right wall. There’s a small shelf crammed with books and some tiny sketchbooks. How many of those did you have? On top of the shelf is a row of various body parts and mannequins. Stuck on the wall are a bunch of post-it notes of varying colors, all with some words scribbled on it.

The highlight is your laptop and a good number of square canvases laid out on the desk. Without thinking, he rises to take a closer look.

They’re small pieces, but his eyes soak up every mark and stroke. Nothing grand, but that was its beauty: little moments of time that he looks fondly upon. Seconds, minutes, maybe even hours passes as he recalls back the memories from that day. The quiet ambience playing in the background is drowned out by the sound of blood pounding in his ears—

“Looks like you’ve already found them,” your voice breaks out. He turns around to see you holding two steaming mugs. There’s weariness in the way you smile, but it’s a smile all the same.

Bokuto grins, if a bit sheepish. “Sorry, they were just sitting right there and…”

You shake your head firmly. “That’s what they’re out for. Here you go. Green tea.” You hand him a mug.

Bokuto receives it with a thanks and immediately takes a sip. It’s bitter, but it warms him up to the core. “This tastes good!”

“You can thank Sugawara for that.”

“I’ll keep it in mind if I ever see him!” 

He turns his attention back towards your desk. “This one’s the pirate-not-a-pirate, isn’t it?” he asks, excitement high in his voice. “Oh, and these are Spotty, Dotty, and Stripey, right?”

“That it is.” Your fingers curl around your mug as you take a sip. 

Bokuto’s not sure of how you fit in his life. You’re neighbors, you’re friends, but what else? He’s only known you for a short period of time, but he feels like he’s known you for longer. As if it’s natural to do so. Bokuto doesn’t know how something like that happens, but he doesn’t question it. 

Here's something Bokuto’s sure of: he’s come to really enjoy your presence.

And if he could be your muse, make you produce works like these, he’d do anything to see them.

So maybe that’s why he decides to push it further tonight.

“Hey, Sasaki…” he begins, his fingers fiddling with the handle of his mug. “When April comes around, we’re given a couple days off all training for spring break.”

“That so?” You take another sip. “That’s nice of them.”

“So during that break, I think I wanna go to Chichibu. Instead of seeing the same old cherry blossoms, they have this cool moss that blooms pink! Plus, it’s close by, so there’s less of a chance getting lost.” He laughs, trying to make it sound more natural.

You offer a wry smile in return. He takes it as an OK to continue.

“Do you think you can come with me? Traveling alone isn’t all that fun.”

Bokuto’s a selfish man. He wants to make a lot of promises with you—in hopes that just one of them can stick. He looks at you, expecting something, _hoping_ for something, his hand unconsciously clenching tighter against his mug.

“April, you said?” You drum your fingers on the edge of the desk. “We’ll see. I’ll probably be free by then.”

Something swells in his chest, pounding loudly against his ribcage. 

And he lets it.

“I’ll hold you to that then!”

_Time for a commercial break._

To many, March 15th was just a regular day. People woke up and busied themselves with their lives just like any other. 

To Julius Caesar and Bokuto, it was the worst day of their lives.

“You seriously brought that thing here with you? What’s even going on in that damn head of yours?” Atsumu’s fiery gaze stares at him in question.

Bokuto closes his eyes. “Well, you know… I thought I could get some help from you all…”

“You’ve been up and at this for four years already, shouldn’t you know how to do these things? And I’m supposed to be your kouhai here!” The setter throws his hands up in exasperation. “So is _this_ why you cost us the damn game today?”

“That wasn’t because of this!” Bokuto looks at him, irritation clearly written on his face. “Probably!”

They’re sitting in their room at the inn, hunched over a slip of paper on the desk, fresh out of the shower. The afternoon sunlight cascades in from the windows. A peaceful scene, save from the conversation happening in it.

Atsumu lets out a loud sigh, hands on the carpeted floor. “So remind me why you’re struggling again?”

“I’m just really bad with numbers! Like, super, _super_ bad!” Bokuto exclaims, ruffling his hair. “None of this makes any sense! When I called Akaashi and Kuroo, they both just flat out ignored me! Kuroo laughed and hung up! Akaashi just hung up!”

“I’m not surprised they did,” replies Atsumu, barely managing to hide back a snort. “I’ve already done it when they mailed it to me. It’s just as simple as double-checkin’ the numbers, making sure nothing’s out of place. How’s any of that hard?”

(actually, his postcard was in his duffel bag simply because he forgot about it, but he wasn’t about to admit that in front of a stressed-out Bokuto.)

“Agh!” Bokuto yells out, tossing the pen aside in defeat, his hands covering his face. “It’s because I’m not 100% sure about it! It always feels like there’s one number off, or I’m looking at something wrong, and then I don’t know! Besides, why do we have to look at all of this anyways?”

“You know it’s even worse in America? We have it lucky, only needing to fill out this.” Atsumu leans his head on his chin and taps his fingers absentmindedly on the table, a posture that exuded casualness no matter how you looked at it. “They have to gather forms and all that over there, that’s what Barnes said the other day.”

“I see! I’m never going to America then!” Bokuto’s eyes suddenly open wide as he immediately sits back up, clearly struck by an idea, shocking Atsumu a bit. Bokuto grabs his phone on the table. A couple taps later, he holds it up to his ear.

There’s a tense moment of silence, save for the sound of ringing. 

The receiver picks up after the fourth ring and the tension is immediately broken.

“Hello, Sasaki? You there? Do you know how to do taxes?”

Atsumu’s eyes—both curiosity and laziness swirling around—looks outside the window as he catches tidbits of the conversation. He idly reaches for a rice cracker in the bowl on the table, chewing in boredom.

“I can’t do them at all” Bokuto laughs, as if it wasn’t a pressing issue. “Sorry! Can you help me out? Everybody else said no!”

Whatever the ‘Sasaki’ person said seemed to be positive as Bokuto picked up the pen from off the ground, now paying rapt attention to the postcard. A great wave of relief crashes over the spiker.

“Uh huh… I see… Yeah, I see that right there… Oh, that makes sense…” Bokuto starts circling in bubbles, head nodding furiously along. “I don’t have to touch that part? Alright! I’m trusting you with this!... That one I do? Alright…”

After some more affirmations, he ends the conversation with a “Thank you for helping me! I’ll be back in Tokyo soon, alright? We should go somewhere together again!” to which Atsumu didn’t catch the response of, but Bokuto hangs up with a large grin on his face.

“We’re finished!” Bokuto holds up the tax form triumphantly, admiring it like a piece of art. “I’ll get this mailed out before we leave!”

“Who was that on the phone?” Atsumu asks, feigning nonchalance.

“Oh, she’s a good friend of mine! She goes to an art school and her works are super amazing!” he replies. “We’re neighbors!”

“That so?” A hum escapes from Atsumu’s lips. “This is the first time you’ve mentioned anything about her.”

“Is it?” Bokuto’s brows furrow. “I guess so. I’m trying to get her to understand my amazingness!” he declares, throwing his arms out to the side.

Atsumu would say that he’s friends with Bokuto.

Atsumu wouldn’t say, however, that he knew the in’s-and-out’s of the man like some other people did. When he first met the spiker in the locker room, he thought of him as just a big manchild who threw temper tantrums whenever some little thing messed up.

But when Bokuto told him—”I’m an ordinary ace, after all” with an intense glint in his eye and left to practice, Atsumu was left utterly confused at what the statement meant, and even more confused at just _who_ exactly Bokuto Koutarou was.

Since then, he’s not learned much.

Bokuto was simultaneously a pillar of support for everybody yet still very _childlike_ , something Atsumu can’t exactly wrap his head around. Bokuto would be the first person to help out anyone hurt, but he’d also be the first to jump into a dangerous situation (like when the team went skydiving once as a “bonding exercise”—Coach Foster had some pretty wild ideas—he was the first to jump without any second thoughts). He made his presence felt, no matter where he was.

“Your amazingness?” Atsumu shifts his position, now both hands underneath his chin and elbows on the table. “Why’s that important?”

So he’s still unsure of how Bokuto’s train of thought worked out.

Bokuto’s eyes suddenly take on a serious look. _He must have a switchboard for his brain,_ Atsumu thinks, _being able to change moods that easily._

“I feel like… she’s got no one really looking out for her. I have Kuroo, Akaashi, you”—and Atsumu raises an eyebrow at how easily that came out—”and a whole bunch of other people on top of that. But she just seems _alone_ , like there’s nobody else there for her.”

And it’s the first time Atsumu has seen Bokuto like this. He studies the man, looking at someplace far away, in front of him curiously. In those pools of gold, he swears he sees glimmers of _something_ swirling around, not unsimilar to the looks Atsumu got from high school girls way back then. 

If there’s a word to describe it, he’d use pure, unbridled affection.

It sickened him.

“Huh,” is all Atsumu says in response. He rises from his spot, stretching out every limb and decides to pivot the conversation, not entirely wanting to delve into _that_ realm with Bokuto. The two of them were pretty different when it came to romance, anybody could pick that up.

“Let’s go over to ‘Samu’s then. You haven’t been in a good while, haven’t you? We can also stop by a nice bakery on the way if you want,” he suggests, ending that conversation.

“Ooh!” Bokuto’s eyes light up as he immediately shoots upwards. “I could get some things as a souvenir! I hope they have chocolate cornets, I like those a lot!”

_Back to the news. We now bring you a special report._

As much as Akaashi would’ve liked to wait around for your calls, he too had things to do, suddenly thrust into his position as editor.

Udai Tenma got settled in during the first week of March somewhere in Chiyoda. Their very first meeting was in a conference room in Shueisha over cups of lukewarm coffee, with Tomokazu acting as a mediator. After the initial awkward stage was over, the storyline of the manga was roughly fleshed out, with Akaashi reading out the ideas he wrote down acting as general guidelines.

“But you also played volleyball in high school too? What a surprise…” Udai says as their meeting comes to a close. “I probably don’t look like it, but they called me the ‘Little Giant’ back then. I’d say I did pretty well, for what it was worth.”

“My team’s ace was well-acquainted with a short player as well,” Akaashi says, looking over his notes on his tablet. “From what I heard, he’s currently in Brazil training in beach volleyball.”

“Brazil? He must be pretty dedicated!” Udai’s face forms an expression of both awe and shock. “I never got any pro league or college offers after high school, and I had other things I wanted to do anyways, so I just gave up the sport.”

Udai Tenma was the actual name of the manga artist, Akaashi learned, though when Zomb’ish gets serialized, he wanted to use the pen name “COSMO”, derived from his last name, as the word “Udai” didn’t sound very marketable to him.

Akaashi nods his head in understanding. “If I may ask, why did you choose to become a manga artist?”

The man leans back in his chair, resting his hands behind his neck. Despite only being in the Shueisha office for a couple hours, Udai already looked at home with his untangled hair, dark eyebags, and casually thrown-together clothes. “It wasn’t really a big revelation or anything for me, I suppose. I really liked working as an assistant to _White Clover_ , and Takata-sensei gave me some good words of encouragement as well. Making advertisement posters, helping out on film sets, even being an assistant chef, those were all pretty fun too, but nothing really beats drawing, I think. Something about being able to create a world of your own and seeing it come alive.”

“That makes the whole ordeal sound quite simple,” Akaashi comments. But still, he wonders if you ever thought the same when you were making your art. 

Udai chuckles lightly. “You could say that. I’m sure once we actually get started, there’s going to be a lot of hardships that I might eat my words.” One of his hands lightly taps the table. “What about you then? Any aspirations for becoming an editor?”

Akaashi pauses his sip of coffee, staring into the murky liquid.

How was he supposed to answer that question?

“I enjoyed reading when I was younger,” he decides to say. “But I don’t think I’m quite suited for writing.”

Which wasn’t a lie, but it sounded so simple compared to Udai’s answer. His current priority was just to make sure the manga could sell and appeal to its audience.

The older man nods his head, apparently satisfied with the answer. “But you’re pretty amazing to be doing this while still in college! I know I definitely couldn’t have done that at all.”

The corner of Akaashi’s mouth twitches at this.

To be frank—college now felt like a waste.

One month into his break, he's dropped by Shueisha every day excluding his weekends, shadowing the editors of Weekly Shonen Jump. In his downtime, he holed himself up in the backroom where shelves and shelves of manga are stored, studying the magazine itself, identifying what were the key points of a successful manga and what a not-so-successful one was, coming up with loose ideas for Zomb’ish. The editor’s office was basically his second home now.

College. He spent hours studying for the exams until hours too early in the morning, and for what? If you didn’t go to a top university, college equated to a four-year long vacation until graduation, which then they’d be thrown out to the adult world with a degree, a slap on the back, and a “good luck!”

What was the point of it all?

“I manage,” Akaashi replies with a tired smile. He takes another sip of his coffee, now gone cold.

“Well then! I think that’s a wrap for today,” Tomokazu finally speaks with a clap of his hands. “Good work today, everyone! I’m looking forward to what this’ll bring!”

Akaashi rises from his chair and bows. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Udai-sensei. I look forward to working with you.”

“You as well, Akaashi-san.” Udai also rises, bowing in return. “I’m sure we’ll be able to pull off something great.”

_Next on the news. We bring you an update on..._

There’s a weird feeling that makes itself home in Bokuto’s chest on the last day in Osaka.

Despite their 1-3 loss to the Green Rockets yesterday, they bounced right back today with a clean sweep against JT Lightning, leading their coach on deciding to pay for half their dinner out of pocket at an izakaya they all picked out for tonight.

So Bokuto has no reason to be feeling down.

Atsumu is already a couple beers in, Meian and Sakusa (he was dragged along) are drinking water, while Tomas and Barnes are trying out sake with Inunaki. Scattered on the long table are plates of food and bowls, all emptied to various levels. Somebody calls out for the waiter again.

But even though he’s surrounded by his teammates, he couldn’t shake the feeling of _emptiness_ next to him. Something about _today_ , he’s not sure what, feels off to him. Too stagnant, too stifling. With a pout on his face, he chews his rice, not particularly paying much attention to his surroundings, until—

“Bokuto,” a voice calls out to him, snapping him out of his reverie. He whips around to face the voice, momentarily thinking it’s you—

“Not drinking tonight?” A woman of slender features is now sitting next to him, brown hair done in waves. Underneath the warm light, her face is more flushed than normal.

“Just keeping a check on my drinking habits,” he replies with a grin. In truth, the beer tasted too flat for him. “Trainer’s orders and all!”

She lets out a giggle. Too grating for his ears, he thinks. “That’s a shame. I still remember the last time you were drunk. It was pretty amusing! Your impressions were all spot-on.”

The ‘team’ didn’t just mean the Black Jackals players—it also included their athletic trainer, the sales and social media managers, and of course, some of the cheerleaders.

“You flatter me too much, Midori,” Bokuto chuckles, his chopsticks playing around with his food.

Midori was one of the flyers, so the spotlight naturally gravitated towards her during the squad’s performances, standing for the whole world to see her. There was something about the woman that made everybody drawn towards her presence.

Naturally, she didn’t escape Bokuto’s attention, and he didn’t escape hers. Naturally, two of them fell into a back-and-forth, a will-they-won’t-they that he was all too happy to play, because Midori was _really_ pretty.

That is, until now.

It’s weird how he plays off her compliment—Past Bokuto would’ve jumped at the chance to show off even more, centering the restaurant’s focus around him. But Present Bokuto was anything but willing. His mind is wandering to other places tonight, other places that weren’t his current location. 

“I only speak the truth,” she replies with a wink, and takes another sip of her beer. “But are you sure you’re doing alright? You seem to be pretty out of it tonight.” With a slight touch of hand, she places her hand on his shoulder. Their couple years of knowing each other were also through these small physical gestures, all testing the waters, building up to something _more_.

Something that Present Bokuto isn’t sure he wants anymore.

“‘M just fine,” says Bokuto quickly, taking a bite into the tamagoyaki. There’s no flavor on his tongue. He eats some more half out of confusion; still the same situation. 

“You sure? I can sneak us out of here if you want,” she says coyly, leaning ever-so-closer to him. Her perfume—some floral scent—attacks his nose, and it’s all he does to stop from coughing.

Their conversations never took an outright demanding tone, but all the underlying meanings and connotations were enough for even someone like Sakusa to recognize its flirtatious nature.

This offer was no different; Bokuto knew full well what accepting it would mean.

Past Bokuto again would’ve taken this opportunity wholeheartedly.

But there’s something about _today_ made all their previous tension built up wither away into nothingness.

So Present Bokuto, again, couldn’t care less.

He swallows down a lump in his throat.

“I think I’ll pass today,” he says, trying his best to form an apologetic look on his face. “Sorry. Maybe next time.”

Midori’s red lips form a small pout. “If you say so then,” she says. Without another word, she disappears into the bustle of the izakaya.

There would be no next time, that was clear as day.

But strangely, he doesn’t mind.

His eyes absentmindedly scan the private room they’re in. Passing over his team members and coaches. Flying over the others. Finally, landing on a scroll painting hanging in the far corner, on top of a vase. It’s done in ink, depicting a scenic landscape of a waterfall rushing down a mountain. Nihonga, for sure.

 _“He was famous for his waterfall paintings,”_ you had told him at the museum. He already knew the story from Akaashi, but he wanted to hear it from your mouth. “ _They’re pretty big. When you look at them, you just get sucked into them. I want my art to be like that too.”_

 _“I think you can do it!”_ said Bokuto, so loud that he got a couple warning shocks thrown his way from the others. “ _Like I said, I’ll be cheering you on._ ”

You paused to look at him, a mixture of confusion and bewilderment apparent on your face. Then, something clicked behind your eyes. He’s not sure what it is.

 _“Thanks,”_ you replied, with a small smile of gratitude on your face. “ _I’ll look forward to it then._ ”

Looking at this painting in the izakaya, he knows it’s probably not done by your grandfather. If Past Bokuto ever gave it the time of day, he might’ve brushed it off as _pretty good._ Present Bokuto wonders what praise or critique you’d throw at it. Maybe commenting on its composition. Perhaps offer an anecdote about the artist.

And that, he realizes, is pretty weird.

Bokuto takes another drink from his beer, pushing it to the side for now.

_Continuing on with the news._

After he gets settled into his apartment (read: threw his backpack on the bed), Bokuto immediately rushes out with the bakery souvenir bag, knocking on the apartment door next to him.

(He’s waiting for you to come out. When you do, you’d open the door, looking like a hurricane ran its course through you. He doesn’t mind; he finds it endearing.

“Hey! I’m back! I got you some sweets!” Bokuto would hold up the bag. “Wanna do anything today?” 

The thing about you and him was that the back-and-forth of invitations to places wasn’t building up to an end goal with intention. What the two of you shared was something truly _natural_ , quietly taking its course.

Which meant Bokuto was all the more excited about it to see where it’d lead. 

You’d smile at him if it was a good day. Are you the type of person to say ‘Welcome back’? Maybe you’d say that. Definitely not an ‘I missed you’ person though. If it’s a bad day, maybe you’d give him a raised eyebrow and a “what?”)

Except none of that previous scenario ever occurs.

Because you don’t open the door.

He knocks again, louder, the weird feeling burrowing further into his chest.

No answer again, after a minute. Knocks some more, tilting his head curiously.

He swears he hears some movement—a rustle, padded footsteps, behind the door. Bokuto pulls out his phone from his pocket and finds your contact.

_hey! are you home right now? i just came back!!_

_wanna do something today??? (15:32)_

A gray bubble and three dots pops up on the screen, right underneath his message. Only seconds pass by, but he feels like an eternity does as his breath hitches in his throat, waiting for your response.

And it’s nothing he imagines, either.

**artist-chan**

_busy right now, please don’t bother me (15:35)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we've burned through the backlog stash so updates may roll out more slower. also currently suffering in finals hell let's see if i make it out alive. thanks for reading!


	15. the stairway to adulthood doesn't always lead straight up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you comfort a broken heart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh. mild apologies about this one. and in case you don't know yet, [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27182105) is the link to the kuroken fic also set in this universe, read it if you're interested? i do touch on some concepts in there for kuroo's character but otherwise references will be vague.

It’s fast.

Maybe _too_ fast, how quickly things happened now.

Professor Kimura may have been right; 130 canvases was a pretty big number, even if 47 are now complete.

To do the math: if you took anywhere from one to three hours working on a painting, that meant you’d be painting for three to ten days straight to finish it all.

And your show's held in exactly ten days. Take away three for critique and revisions. So seven days today to finish 83 pieces.

You were really, _really_ kicking yourself in the ass for doing this. The only upsides are that the canvases were small and inexpensive. Easy to sell too, since wall space in Tokyo homes are precious and rare.

Those are the only silver linings.

There’s a whole laundry list of the downsides.

(One: the whole idea was definitely biting off more than you could chew. For doing this on a whim, in its essence, and thinking it’d be alright.)

Here’s a thing about artists: when they get into the Zone, there’s nothing that can take them out of it. Absolute focus. Nothing distracts them in the Zone. It’s what you saw Azumane under that one day in his studio, what Tachibana’s always in when she was working.

You’ve no choice but to enter as well, because there’s no other way to finish everything.

(Two: you’re not sure just how they’d be received. You were doing them for yourself, yes, but that didn’t mean you could ignore the art world without a second thought. Not caring about what the public thought sounds nice on paper, but you still don’t have the complete luxury to do that.)

For your part, you’re working half from reference, half from memory. Capturing both the inconsistencies of moments, fragments from times past, and the presence of it all in a today, onto the white canvases. Some turned into blocks of color with hardly any detail present—the view from your balcony during a sunrise, a branch of coral, a can of beer. Others turned into intricate patterns—Tachibana's frilly clothes, a plate of ramen, a part of your grandfather’s paintings.

Individually, they don't take up much time. You gave each piece a three hours limit, to save time. If it was still unfinished by then, so be it.

(Three: for letting thoughts like legacy still enter your mind, coloring your judgement needlessly.)

You wrote down 130 with meaning, with conviction, and you were going to see it through to the end. Reckless it was, dangerous it was, but there’s nothing else you can do.

The funny thing about memory is that the things you try hard to remember, sometimes just couldn’t come to you. Your mind fuzzed the details of some conversations and faces, leaving behind a twinge of the emotions. It’s inevitable; forgetting. But life is made up of these vague memories, each holding a part of your soul that you spilled onto the canvas.

And you couldn’t help but think about the people around you too. How far back does one’s memory of a person go? When does it start? Your memories with Akaashi all formed a giant pool from age seven to fourteen, all mixed in the murky waters.

(For example: when you were either nine or ten, maybe even another age, your teeth still growing in, you hurt your leg after running too fast and tripping on the sidewalk. 

“It’s just a scrape,” Akaashi had said. “Once you get it treated it’ll be alright.”

“It hurts,” you sniffled. “A lot.”

“I can carry you on my back if you want,” he replied, extending his hand out to you.

“Are you—are you sure?” you asked him, eyes wide open. He gives a little nod. 

“It’ll be fast this way, anyways. Your mom’s going to be worried about you if you don’t make it home in time.” He gently hauls you up and you climb on his back. Underneath the setting sun, Akaashi starts his trek to your homes. Each step moving forward slowly, but consistently.

His back was large to you, even though he hadn't started his growth spurt yet. Really warm too, like lying on your bed at home. During that walk, you could forget about the throbbing on your kneecap. Akaashi’s steady breaths mingled with your own as he walked in silence. 

He never once took a break, you faintly recall.)

And now that you’re thinking about it, you’ve known Akaashi for a really long time now—thirteen or fourteen years, give or take. He fits into your life through early morning/late night phone calls and through winter breaks nowadays. What is that called?

You don’t know if there’s an appropriate label for that. Don’t know if there really needs to be one in the end, because the two of you just _were_ , despite the peculiarities that came with it. Nobody ever asked for a definition or a name. There’s just _existence_ now, between the two of you.

(Four: it’s really easy to get distracted.)

You blink. It’s lunchtime.

“Woah,” is the first thing that comes out of your mouth after the alarm on your phone rings out. One in the afternoon. You stretch all of your limbs as you stand, cracking a couple joints in the process, and rub your eyes. Blinking once, twice, to shake off the daze.

“Eloquent,” Tachibana remarks, her knuckles making a series of _pop-pop-pop_ sounds. “Made anything for lunch today?” As Tachibana’s cooking skills are practically nonexistent, she often asked (leeched off of) you for food.

“Uh.” You take out your bento and thermos from your backpack. “Clover honey, ham, and cheese sandwich. Some leftover soup. I can spare half.”

“Clover honey?” she asks, walking over to where you’re sitting and taking a peek while you unwrap the lunch. “Never heard of that before.”

“Was on sale.” You bring out the sandwich, looking depressingly plain on all sides. Something your mother might’ve pitied. Still, it’d do for a college student—or soon-to-be fully-functioning adult.

“I’ll take some then,” replies Tachibana. Unceremoniously, you break half of it and hand it to her. She takes a seat next to you, shoulders just centimeters away from brushing.

“Do you… mind if I talk about something?” she asks out of the blue, fidgeting with her sandwich.

You take a bite from yours. It’s surprisingly decent—the clover honey’s sweeter than you imagined. Just a touch of the plant is present. “What’s up?”

“We... broke up,” Tachibana says quietly, her eyes focusing somewhere on the floor.

“Oh.” A pause. “Mi… yoshi, right? When did it happen?”

“Minari,” she corrects you with a tired smile. “Just a couple days ago.”

“Ah. Sorry.” You set your sandwich down, your expression turning more thoughtful. “You doing alright?” The words fall clumsily from your mouth.

A long exhale escapes Tachibana as she shrugs. “Was seeing it coming when I got accepted, honestly. Still kind of hurts though.”

Even though she worded it as an _open_ _relationship_ the other night _,_ everybody knew it was exclusive in everything but name. Three years strong—both long and short depending on how you look at it, yet you’ve never met the woman before. You’ve even forgotten her last name. Then again, Tachibana never talked much about her.

Then again, did any of that matter?

“Wanna talk about it?” you ask.

“Not much to say.” Tachibana takes a small bite from hers. “Everything has an expiration date, I guess.” She sniffles. “This isn’t any different.”

And it happens all at once—

Tachibana’s head falls onto your shoulder, her hands falling into her lap. She draws a ragged breath. Inhale, exhale. Her body weight slumps against yours, completely deflating. She’s warm to the touch.

“Sorry,” she whispers against your sleeve. 

“Hey. Don’t apologize.” With a free hand, you reach out to stroke her head. “It’ll be alright.”

Another breath. Inhale, exhale. 

“Up to the very end, I thought I didn’t love her. But once it was over, why did I realize it then?” She’s trying her hardest to collect herself. The tears fall out anyways. “I’m really stupid or something. And now I can’t do anything about it.”

“You’re not stupid,” you reply firmly, trying to muster up strength for the woman on your shoulder. “Things like that happen. You can’t control them, even if you wanted to.”

Tachibana pulls back for a second, just to wipe her eyes, swollen red. She buries further into your sleeve. “I hate it. I want to drown my feelings in a burning vat of fire or something. It’s just so—” her voice is drowned out by another bout of sobs.

In the moments she takes to regain some semblance of coherence, you think about memory again. Once, twice, when you’ve felt the same as she did. Maybe even more, but you can’t remember. 

“None of us ever said it either. _I love you._ It's like if we said it, everything would come crashing down in an instant. That’s so stupid, isn’t it? And now I want to say it to her so much. so much that it’s all that I want to say to her. I’ll even scream it on Everest for her to hear or something. And I think she—”

 _She wanted to say it too_ , is what Tachibana doesn’t say. The words choke up in her throat as she buries further into your sleeve. You continue stroking her head out of comfort for her. Something in your ribcage aches. twisting uncomfortably.

“Why is it like this?” she whispers, asking to not just you. “Why do we have to feel so much?”

And you think about love. It would be a lie to say you’ve never thought about romance—the times when you wished that somebody could be next to you, late at night. But then in the rays of the morning, you find relief that nobody’s there to disturb the silence.

It’s solitude, but it’s a different kind than just being _alone_.

“Who knows.” You’re not looking at anything in particular, your sandwich now the last of your priorities. “That’s just life.”

“I don’t like it at all." Inhale, exhale. She bites the bottom of her lip. "I should be happy that I get to go to Milan, but I can’t feel one bit happy about it.”

“I doubt anybody can feel happy after a breakup. It’s just natural that you do.”

There's a short silence that settles, heavy in the air.

“I hate feelings,” she repeats softly. It’s not a tender kind of soft, but one that's tiredly accepted everything.

“It’s a real bitch,” is all you can say back with a heavy tongue.

How do you comfort a broken heart? They didn’t teach that in school.

(did they ever teach about _life_ in school? was something like _life_ teachable in an institution?)

Tachibana nods, apparently satisfied. Inhale, exhale. A soft piano song is playing in the background, filling the silence.

Some time later, she pulls away from you for the final time and gives you a sad smile.

“Sorry for… this." Tachibana vaguely gestures to her haphazard state. “Probably not what you expected today.”

There’s probably better, kinder, wiser words that Tachibana wanted to hear. Unfortunately, you’re not the right person to say those, because you don’t know how.

Instead—

“And like I said, you don’t have to apologize.” You rub her shoulder, hoping it could show at least a shred of the affection you held for her. “It’s gonna be rough. But you’re gonna get through it.”

The sun peeks through the clouds and shines through the window sill, illuminating a part of the studio. Tachibana’s face comes into the light and there’s a glistening trail down her cheek. She looks outside the window.

“Spring’s... coming now, isn’t it?” she says, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand.

You turn to the window. There’s a small forest of trees in view, their green buds just starting to sprout. Soon, Ueno would be awash in a sea of pink blooms. 

It’s fast. Maybe _too_ fast now, with how quickly things happened. The reality of graduation fully sunk its claws into everyone. Time moves forward, shoving everybody along with it. This studio that two of you occupied would be passed to the next generation.

Where would you be after it’s all over?

You don’t know.

“Sure is,” you reply, taking another bite of your sandwich, letting the sweetness momentarily make you forget about the future. “Want some soup? It’s my leftover soup curry from last night. Can’t guarantee the quality, but you should get some fluids in your system. You can use the thermos cap.”

You hear a twist, a steady pour of hot liquid, a cautious sip.

“It’s kind of salty.” She takes another sip, longer this time. 

“Can't help much there,” you reply distantly.

* * *

If there’s such a thing as hell in the world, you dimly wonder if that’s what you’re in right now.

For the weekend that Bokuto was away, you immersed yourself in work, stretching yourself thin over everything you had to do. Commissions were still ongoing since you still had to pay the bills. To the best of your ability, you tried to take some breaks.

Breaks meant focusing on other show-related things.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, hunched over your laptop at your desk, staring at a document on the screen, sitting criss-crossed in your chair. There’s cup ramen, half-eaten, next to your laptop. A couple pens scattered around, and your sketchbook with a page of half-baked ideas scribbled all over.

Other show-related things meant writing your artist statement.

You stretch, bringing your hands behind your neck. The deadline’s tomorrow. Later, you still had to order prints of your best works to sell and update your website. A couple social media posts too. 

It should be easy to come up with some flowery words. Maybe add in a captivating story to the mix to draw some tears. Top it off with an inspirational message for the audience. It’s formulaic. Short. Snappy. Shouldn’t even take half the amount of time you're using.

You flex your wrists and set your fingertips back on top of the keyboard.

But for some reason, you actually wanted to _try_ and write something from your heart. You reach for your mug and take a sip, trying to think. Why was it so hard to come up with words when you actually wanted to say something?

Your phone next to you lights up. Bokuto sent you a text. Was it already Monday again?

_hey! are you home right now? i just came back!!_

_wanna do something today??? (15:32)_

You let the message sit in your mind, your fingers idly hovering over the keyboard as you think of a response.

During the weekend Bokuto went away, you’ve come to a couple realizations.

 _One,_ that you honest-to-god _enjoyed_ hanging out with him.

It was too good to be true, how easily things fell into place. The man himself looked like he walked straight out of a shojo manga. Acted like one, too. Thinking it was payback for the aquarium, using it to help get over your art block—it was all just pretense.

And yet—

 _Two,_ there comes a time in life when ambiguity is no longer an available option. There’s only so many things you can prioritize. Only so much you can handle, before you completely snap.

Art, to you, would always come first. 

No matter what.

And this—  
  


_busy right now, please don’t bother me (15:35)_

—isn’t one of those priorities.

Was it rude of you?

Probably.

Was it unfair of you?

Probably.

Was it uncalled for?

Probably. 

Not.

Right?

Nothing was a lie in your text. No falsehoods or misleading information. Nothing that had a double or hidden meaning.

So why did a pang of guilt attack your heart after you press _send_?

Moments later, he sends something back.  
  


_let me know when you’re not busy then? (15:36)_   
  


You’re not sure when that’d be. You turn off your phone and toss it onto the couch, clearing away that distraction.

Except you couldn’t help but think of Bokuto.

There’s memories with him, too. When did knowing Bokuto even start? Was it way back when you first moved into the apartment, then slowly became more and more aware of his presence next door? Was it when things came to a climax and you knocked on his door that fateful night? Or was it the first, second conversation on the balcony? The visit to the aquarium?

Did any of that even matter?

You just liked his presence.

You lean back in your chair, letting out a long exhale. Your gaze travels to the blank ceiling.

And you hated to admit that, but there’s no other explanation. For why you kept talking with him. For why you let him take you out to different places.

It felt _nice_.

To be alone with him.

So in theory, you shouldn't have sent the text.

Isn't this exactly the reason why you were burnt out before? Because you didn’t take any breaks? Bokuto was a breath of fresh air in your same old routine. A radiant beam of sunshine through an overcast sky.

But it’s fast. Maybe _too_ fast, how quickly things happened now.

And you aren’t ready yet.

So for now, you stall. Even if it’s a futile effort. Because you don’t know what else to do. Because there’s other things you have to do.

(because you don’t know what you’re _really_ feeling.)

You cried out for some semblance of control in your life. A hard press on the brakes, before everything spirals out of control even further.

And this is the answer, to a world that didn't make sense to you anymore.

Akaashi had said you were an _inconsiderate, impolite, and reckless person._ You wonder if something like this counted.

But you _needed_ this.

No distractions.

You weren’t running away.

You were focusing on what’s in front of you.

That was what you tried to convince yourself with.

(and deep down, there's a small voice that says it's useless to convince yourself, but you shove it aside.)

You turn your attention back to your laptop, setting your fingers once again on the keys. A stream of consciousness pours out from them, onto the blank document. Somewhere in the distance, a bird is chirping against the backdrop of a quiet piano.

Distantly, you wonder if this was the right thing to do.

* * *

(Here’s something that you remember from not too long ago:

Bokuto told you to meet at his practice gym before the yakiniku dinner, since he said practice was running a bit later than normal. You obliged—begrudgingly so—and when you’re there, Bokuto immediately ushered you inside. There’s all but a single ball left on the court.

“You wanna try something fun for a bit?” he grinned.

You remember replying with a sigh, “Exactly what does that mean?”

“Serving!” He picked up the ball and spun it in his hands. A whir of yellow and blue of dizzying speed. “I learned a lot about art from you. Let me teach you how to play!”

“My fingers will break if I do so. Then my whole career is over."

“It’ll be fine! If I can serve, you can too!”

“National player," you reminded him.

“We don’t need to talk about that! Let me teach you,” he repeated, much to your chagrin. "I'll make sure your fingers are nice and protected!"

With an exasperated eye roll, you motioned for him to continue. He started going on about all the different serves used in a match with words so fast you’re barely able to retain any of it, but you nodded along to show you’re at least listening.

“—so this is how you do a standard serve,” he explained, getting into position. With a toss, he hits the ball to the other side, bouncing right on the back line. Bokuto ran over to pick up the ball.

“My arms will definitely break if I hit that hard,” you called out. 

“They won’t break! You don’t have to serve that far, just get it over the net is fine,” Bokuto said, running back to you. Once he’s at the net, he throws the ball to you and you have no choice but to catch it.

And suddenly, he was behind you to adjust your every limb to the right angles, moving with his years of experience.

“Widen your feet a bit, and make sure your knees aren’t locked. Then—” he raised your arm. “Hold the ball in this, and hit it with your other.”

Here’s something that you remember from not too long ago:

Bokuto’s grin when you—more or less—successfully served the ball over the net, landing in the other court with a weak bounce, was something you wanted to see more of.)

* * *

“Do you have any regrets?”

“Uh. What?”

“Like I said, do you have any regrets,” you repeat, a touch slower. “Maybe that’s too much of a heavy question to spring on you right now? Should I start off with mine then?”

He blinks. “Um,” is the only thing that comes out. 

It’s too dark out is all Akaashi knows. He wanted you to call him, sure, but that didn’t make the actual experience any more bearable.

You take that as a yes and continue. “You asked me, the last day before I left your parents’ place, whether I regret my decision to go to art school or not. I’ve been doing some thinking about that recently, and I think I know the answer now.”

You pause. Were you waiting for him to affirm? He opens his mouth—

“Go ahead—”

“So you see—”

“Oh, my bad,” you say, followed by an abashed chuckle. “Er, did you have something to say?”

“It’s fine. You can continue.”

Akaashi’s quite embarrassed now. He rubs his eyes and sits up on his bed, mind just a little more awake than normal.

“Where was I again… oh, right. Regrets,” you continue, and he’d definitely put that strange interaction as something he regrets. “You know, I don’t think I regret it at all. You know how there’s some things in the world you’re meant to do? This is one of them for me, I think.”

He waits.

“But… How do I say this? There’s still definitely things I regret right now.” There’s a brief pause. “Like my show right now. I feel like once this is over, I’m going to have my soul completely sucked out of me like a zombie or something. Maybe I’ll start the next zombie apocalypse.”

“Please don’t do that,” he replies with a slight groan.

“Alright then,” you chuckle. Something in his heart skips a beat. As it always does. “For you. I won’t start it. So? Do you have any regrets?”

He should be more used to it by now, he thinks. He’s known you for so long.

Still, that didn’t make things easier.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Akaashi answers.

He has a lot, actually.

“Wow, cool as ever, aren’t you?” He hears a rustling of papers. “What’s it like?”

Akaashi doesn’t choose to dwell on these regrets. Once you start to wallow in _what-ifs_ , there’s no stop to it, resulting in a chain of dominoes all knocked down. He can’t afford the time to deal with that, with everything he has to do.

“What’s it like…” he parrots faintly. “I’m not really sure how to answer that. I still have things I have to worry about, but they’re just not related to the past.”

If there’s one regret in particular that’s still on his mind, it’s that he’s bad with words. Which is ironic, given his major and now his job.

And Akaashi should know what to say—he’s become intimately familiar with the words he wants to say, too. It’s simple. Doesn’t take that much time. But things in life are never that easy.

“Hmm.” You end the conversation point there, tapping something on your desk. “So uh… how’s college and all going? Aren’t you graduating soon?”

“Yes, on the 20th is when our year ends. When’s your show?”

“26th. You guys have it nice, ending earlier.” “Oh, speaking of which, do you think you can help me edit something for that? Just my artist statement. It’s really short, but Japanese is hard and I don’t know what I’m writing. Also, it’s due tomorrow—er, later today, I guess.”

“You didn’t think to do this earlier?”

But he likes hearing your voice, even if it’s tired and punctuated by large yawns, so he doesn’t mind.

“Sorry…” You sound embarrassed too. “I promise it won’t take that much of your time! If you want, I can treat you to somewhere afterwards! Or maybe a free sticker?"

He shifts his position slightly on his bed, letting out a small sigh. “Email it over to me then. I’ll look it over. A free sticker is fine.”

He wants to choose the first option—it’s out there, dangling so close to him. But you’re busy—he’s busy too—so he doesn’t take it.

“Alright.” He hears clicks on a keyboard. “And sent. Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.”

There’s a moment of silence that settles between you two. It’s tense, maybe too much so. Was talking to you always like this?

“So, college,” you echo from before.

“College,” he repeats. “Uh. I think I’m quitting next year.”

“Ah, I see—wait, _what?_ ” He imagines an incredulous look on your face. “You’re… quitting college?”

“Yes,” answers Akaashi. “I’m a full-time editor now at Shueisha. They’ve assigned me to a manga artist. His work will begin serialization in the next _Weekly Jump_ issue.”

The decision came to him on a whim—but for some reason, it just made sense to him. He knows the risks that come with not finishing a degree, it would make his future employment harder. Akaashi's faculty advisor looked at him, absolutely stunned. In his position, Akaashi would probably do the same.

Still, he’s still not sure just what exactly that _future employment_ entailed. Not sure if he even knows this is the right thing to do.

 _“We’re taking a gamble on you,_ ” Kosegawa had said. “ _But we think you can do it._ ”

But if people believed he can, he doesn't want to let them down.

“What about your parents?” you ask quietly.

“I haven’t discussed it with them about it yet.”

His parents. They expected him to finish with a degree—education was something they viewed as important, something natural. Who sends their kid off to college with expectations that they’ll drop out? They didn't expect the absolute best for him, but they expected their son to enjoy some relative success. As long as there's a good education, they believed there would be some hope for a future.

But he’s not sure if there’s a point to it all anymore. The opportunity to become an editor at one of Japan’s top publishing companies doesn’t come around easily. Was it better than college? Akaashi’s not quite sure he can decide that just yet.

Tomorrow, he has to send out the printing orders for Zomb’ish. Then do final checks of the magazine with the other editors. A full day of work, most likely. More than he’s done for college. In the Shueisha editing office that's unorganized and overflowing with stories, there’s an inkling of a feeling that he has the chance to be a part of something _big_ , something _worthwhile_ , something _special_ again.

So it makes sense to drop out, despite how preposterous it sounds.

“What’s it called?” you ask, breaking his daze. He appreciates the fact that you don’t dwell on it too long—a part of him’s glad that you do so. You’ve never been one to judge decisions like these where others would have scoffed at him.

“Zomb’ish. By COSMO.”

You make a hum in affirmation. “I’ll check it out at my next convenience store trip if I see it.”

“When you’re out of juice again?”

“Yeah.” You laugh, maybe a bit too loud. “Hopefully it won’t take an hour next time around.” 

Another silence follows, just as awkward as the last. Maybe if he’s somebody else, he couldn’t known how to continue the conversation—

“So… You know a lot about Bokuto, don’t you?” Your voice takes on a distant tone he doesn’t think he’s ever heard you use before.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Is he…” Your voice trails off, deep in thought for a moment so long he wants to know what you were thinking. ”Actually, never mind. I’ll… figure it out myself or something.”

Akaashi’s eyebrows furrow. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I think.” You let out a long sigh. “I don’t even know what I want to ask you anyways. Don’t mind me. Things are… complicated,” you conclude.

Complicated. Akaashi’s mind feels complicated at whatever time it is right now. He wants to say those words, really badly. But there’s a right place and time for everything that needs to be said.

This isn’t one of them, is what he decides.

(then again, is there ever a right place and time? Akaashi’s much too self-aware to not figure out that he’s just _scared_ —even though he has the slightest inkling of what your response would be.)

He knows you forgot about the promise. And he knows you _probably_ don’t feel the same way. 

Operative word: probably. Akaashi isn’t one to gamble, but there exists some chance out there you did reciprocate.

Knowing the answer to that, he thinks, isn’t something he’s ready for. 

For your friendship—one that’s been built up steadily over the course of many years—he doesn’t want to risk it. Because the words he wants to say can send it all toppling down, making the distance of a ward in Tokyo or two feel like an ocean.

It’s easier, keeping it like this.

So again, he doesn’t say it.

Even then, if Akaashi wanted, wholeheartedly, to say the words, he’s not sure if they can make it out of his mouth.

“I see,” he says simply. “I hope things work out between the two of you.”

Something in his chest squirms uncomfortably at what he’s just said, tying itself up in a tight knot.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you groan. “Well, whatever.”

It’s not that he’s more quiet tonight too. For reasons unknown, you don’t speak with the same waves crashing over a rocky shore, like you did in previous nights. He wants to point out—tell you, _hey, you’re pretty quiet tonight—_ but he’s not sure how you’d take it. There’s a certain fatigue too, lined in your voice, not just because of how late it is. But things might be less tense if he does say something about it.

Before he does, however—

“Hey. Do you remember when we were thirteen or something and I scraped my knee pretty badly?” you reminisce out of the blue.

“Er… I believe so.” Akaashi switches his phone to the other ear. “Why do you ask?”

He remembers carrying you on his back to your house, calmly explaining the situation to your flustered mother once the two of you arrived, and then getting treated to dinner. _Soup curry,_ your mother said with a proud beam. _A Hokkaido specialty._ _I bet you’ve never had this before._

“I was just thinking about it earlier. I’ve gotten weirdly nostalgic now. Maybe I’m old now,” you comment lightheartedly.

 _What does that make me then?_ he wonders. “You already have the bodily pains to accompany it.”

“Ignoring that,” you cut in. “Do you remember the days right before me moving away? I think I said something about being the best artist there was.”

“I do.”

“You told me you’d be cheering me on. I don’t think I understood how that’d work out back then. And—get this—Bokuto actually said that exact same thing recently. _I’ll be cheering you on._ ” You pause to catch your breath. “I was pretty shocked. I still don’t really think I get it. I mean, it’s not like there’s cheerleaders or something in art.”

Akaashi’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, but his surprise quickly fizzles into nothing, then acceptance.

Of course Bokuto said the same words too.

“For me,” he begins, trying to make some sense of his jumbling mess of a mind. “I think I said it just as a show of support. Bokuto’s probably the same too.”

Truthfully, Akaashi’s all but forgotten why he said that back then. Most likely just because he didn’t know what else to say.

But Bokuto—Akaashi doesn’t need to hear the man to know he meant it with complete sincerity.

“Hmm. Well, thanks I guess. I shouldn’t keep you up even longer now, it’s almost four. Good night.” 

You end the call right there, leaving behind the sound of the dial ring in his ear.

Akaashi flops back onto his bed, his phone dangling lazily at the edge of his bed in his hand. A sigh escapes from his lips, going unheard in the night. His free hand forms a fist, then unclenches with a sense of resignation.

Yeah. He’s terrible at words.

* * *

(Here’s something that Akaashi still remembers:

The two of you are thirteen, maybe fourteen. He hears his name being called from somewhere at night, so he opens the window of his bedroom, half-awake. He’s greeted by your face from the window opposite his.

“Yo,” you called out to him, with a look of pure elation on your face. “This is pretty cool, isn’t it?”

“What,” he said back, still not able to properly form a sentence with his mind in a daze.

“It’s like… Even though we’re in different places, we can still be together! Maybe even _forever_!”

“We’re going to move out someday,” he pointed out, crushing that idea. “Then there wouldn’t be a forever.”

You stuck out your tongue. “You just had to ruin the moment, huh?”

“It’s just something that’ll happen.” 

A beat later: “But—I guess this is pretty cool.”

Here’s something that Akaashi still remembers:

Your grin, underneath that world bathed silver by the moonlight, makes him briefly entertain the idea of _forever_ with.)

* * *

It’s easy.

Maybe _too_ easy, how little effort it’d take.

Bokuto stands, leaning against the balcony door. Remembers how he took flight from one end to the other, landing on yours.

From here, it looked like an impossible feat to do. _Seven stories up_ , you said. When he told Atsumu he did that, the setter looked at him incredulously and laughed, not believing him. _That’s impossible_ , he said.

He’s always been one to defy impossibilities though.

Bokuto closes his eyes. Like this, he can hear your faint voice. There’s a lilt to it that he’s come to like.

(To _love_ , something deep inside him whispers.)

Bokuto lets it.

In the solitude of his apartment late at night, he learns that silence is something that can be heard. Bokuto’s not one to like the silence—which is why he always holds afterparties and goes out to eat, rather than in his place.

He opens his eyes again. Checks the time—two AM. He should be sleeping soon, but he wants to hold out for just the possibility that you might come out tonight. He starts pacing back and forth in the cramped living room.

The rational part of Bokuto says that you were just busy. Your show’s coming up soon, and you needed to focus on your works. He understands that.

But the irrational part of him argues that you wouldn’t be that busy enough to leave him on read like that.

 _let me know when you’re not busy then?_ No response. You’re not the type of person to cut off communication like that.

Or maybe you were, but he just didn’t know you well enough to know that.

He thinks—he _wants_ to think, at least—time isn’t that big of a factor in knowing somebody. It’s about the quality of conversations. You can have ten conversations over a period of time, but if they’re all meaningless, they can’t hold a flame to a single meaningful one.

And with who Bokuto is, he excels in those meaningful ones.

Bokuto knows he’s a pillar of strength in the world. The world gives him people. He carries them on his broad back like Atlas does. He doesn’t let them crumble, because it’s his destiny. Atlas doesn’t let others know the struggle of carrying such a burden. It’s his and his alone to do so.

But Bokuto isn’t a god. He’s just human. Meaning he has emotions.

One of them—

He’s lonely.

And in those brief looks he saw that flashed on your face—

He knows you are, too.

And he also knows. He needs to give you space. 

But Bokuto Koutarou is a selfish man.

Sometimes his wants are at odds with his needs.

He’s been in a couple relationships before. All started just like the perfect couple making heart eyes at their partner. Then they left with tears and frustrated expressions, claiming they felt too _smothered_. He’s not entirely sure what they meant. Weren’t you supposed to dedicate your all to your partner in a relationship?

But was that what you were feeling? Smothered?

He’s greedy. Craving, even.

He wants— _longs—_ to know what it’s like to be filled up with so much love, it overflows in him. 

Doesn't everybody, at one point in their life?

So he takes. And takes. And takes. To know what it’s like.

Maybe if he was Atlas, things would be easier. But the world he holds up made Bokuto Koutarou to have an attachment for the laughs from the stomach, a softness for the way people smiled with their eyes, and a large heart for everybody around him.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Bokuto slides open the door to his balcony, his slippers meeting the cold tile underneath. Even now, Tokyo’s still alive with all the glittering lights shining down below.

He needs to give you space.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t toe that boundary a bit, can he?

_What happened to you?_

He wants to know. Just like he did a month ago.

Nobody should be alone, he thinks. He’s seen what it did to his old man.

It’s easy. Maybe too easy. How little effort it’d take to cross the balcony again.

Bokuto lets out a long breath of air.

He doesn’t know what to do.

* * *

Bokuto’s never the first one to say what’s wrong.

He’s always been the type to prioritize others first, then himself. 

So he doesn’t talk about it.

Today’s restaurant choice is hotpot—Kuroo’s not sure why for the change, and it’s the first warning sign.

“Why’s this taking so long?” Bokuto whines, staring intensely at the pot on his side. Laid out in the center is an assortment of raw meats and vegetables, ranging from poultry to radish. 

(that’s another warning sign: Bokuto choosing vegetables to eat.)

“You were the one who picked this place,” Kuroo reminds him, eyeing his own pot of simmering broth just beginning to bubble. “Not my idea at all.”

Bokuto crosses his arms over his chest. “You could’ve stopped me!”

Kuroo rolls his eyes in retaliation. “You were dead set on this.” 

This silences Bokuto, who doesn’t say another word, instead continuing his staredown with the pot. His is the first to boil and once it does, Bokuto's eyes light up and he turns the knob controlling the flame to the lowest setting, diving right into eating the mashup of everything.

They talk, catching up on trivial matters that held no meaning, only to pass time. It's mostly one-sided—Kuroo complaining about the daily struggles of his job and his coworkers, glad that the season is almost over now. All mundane matters.

Bokuto's listening in, only on the surface level. There's an underlying tension in the air in the way Bokuto gives the slightest of glances side-to-side, as if looking for something, the way he punctures the air with small coughs, and the way he's more occupied with his food, is enough for Kuroo to know something was off for the spiker. He pretends not to notice, as Bokuto’s trying to be discreet about it.

But there comes a point when the silence is too overbearing, and Bokuto was clearly begging for the question to be asked.

“Hey. What happened?” Kuroo finally gives in, slicing through the tension. “We haven’t seen each other since the New Year’s and you’re being awfully quiet for once.”

“How’s Kenma?” Complete ignorance of the question.

Kuroo indulges him, if only for a bit. “Perfectly fine,” he answers. “I bought him a plant from Kai’s the other day.”

“Ooh! A plant!” Bokuto does his best to look interested. Had Kuroo not known the man for so long now, he would’ve thought it was genuine. “Plants are cool!”

“Plants are cool,” he repeats. “Asides from that. There’s clearly something going on with you right now.”

Bokuto’s gaze dips to his own pot, his chopsticks swirling around in it. “Not really.”

Kuroo lets out a sigh of irritation. If he had been Akaashi, he might’ve had an easier time figuring out what happened. But he’s not, so he has to take the traditional approach:

“That setter and you get into a fight?”

“No. Me and Tsumtsum are working out just fine.”

“You’re hiding from your landlord because you didn’t pay rent on time.”

“It was timely this month!”

“I didn’t help you out with taxes that one time, and now you’re angry.”

“I got somebody to help me out! She’s my—” His bright face falls immediately. Bokuto doesn’t finish his sentence, instead choosing to pick up a piece of mushroom in his broth.

Finally, his interrogation strikes something. In that moment, Kuroo runs through a mental checklist of who this person can be, arriving at only possibility.

A strange one, somebody that he doesn’t expect. In fact, he’s not even sure how it’s possible.

“Your… neighbor?” he queries, picking up a strand of rice noodles. “Last time I checked, didn’t she hate your guts or something?”

Bokuto shakes his head. “No, not anymore. We’re pretty close now”—and Kuroo’s somehow both shocked yet not at this development—”but…” With a sigh, he pulls out his phone and shows him a text. “What am I supposed to do now?”

Kuroo squints at it slightly. The text from his neighbor reminds him vaguely of Kenma on his bad days with its curtness. “Isn’t it obvious? Just give her space or something," he replies, leaning against the back of his seat.

“I know, but…”

And the way Bokuto gazes into the distance, coupled with how his lips form a pout, how his golden eyes take on a forlorn look, makes Kuroo realize there’s something more to this.

And _oh boy_ , he thinks, _isn’t this gonna be a mess?_

There’s a lot of options Kuroo has to choose from. One of them would create a mess of completely unknown boundaries (telling Bokuto about Akaashi), the other might still create a mess, but have a guaranteed chance of being delayed (not telling Bokuto about Akaashi) and was more up to the parties involved.

And again, because Kuroo’s a nice and caring person, he selects the latter. _Is this your final answer?_

 _Yes,_ he answers.

“Look here… I’m not sure what’s happened between the two of you, but some alone time isn’t so bad, y’know.” He shrugs, leaning forward to slurp his noodles. “Maybe she got fed up with you or something.”

Bokuto’s form slumps forward even more. “You think…?”

“Oi, wait, I didn’t mean it seriously!” Kuroo immediately tries to cover up his words, almost choking in the process. He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Is she the honest type? If she is, then she would’ve said that outright.”

Bokuto tilts his head in thought. “She is, if you ask the right questions. Otherwise though, it’s hard to get a word from her.”

Kuroo raises an eyebrow. _Kind of like you then,_ he stops himself from saying.

“Then be optimistic and look on the bright side. I know you like helping out people and all, but there’s some things people gotta do by themselves.”

“I know!” Bokuto huffs, and there’s something childish about the gesture that Kuroo hides his smirk. “But… ugh, it’s confusing! Really confusing!” he groans, stabbing his chopsticks into his bowl of rice. "I just don't know anymore!"

Dimly, Kuroo can relate to his friend. 

“So is she the reason why I haven’t seen your face around as much?” he asks, poking around some more.

Bokuto looks askance. He reaches over to grab strips of beef and drops it in his pot to busy himself. “No, not all the time.” 

It’s as clear as day that was a lie.

Kuroo leans forward a smidge. “You like her?” 

After a moment, Bokuto’s eyes finally meet his own. “What if I do?” he replies, not looking away.

And Bokuto’s usually not one to give such an ambivalent response, but in its ambiguity, in his hues of gold, lies a clear truth:

He does.

Kuroo lets out a long exhale, pinching the bridge of his nose. Briefly collects himself in preparation for what he wants to say.

“Look here,” he begins, the ends of his chopsticks tapping together. “If she’s giving you this kind of trouble, she’s either really busy, needs some time alone, or is emotionally unavailable. If she’s the first or the second, then she’ll apologize or something later, I don’t know. But if it’s the third—” Kuroo’s eyes flatten. 

“Don’t even bother with her. She’s not worth your time, no matter what you think.”

There’s a fourth option too, somewhere—that she’s the avoidant type, hesitant and unwilling to face her reality. Kuroo doesn’t mention this, because he didn’t want to plant any false seeds of hope in Bokuto’s mind.

“You don’t need to go through that kind of hurt and I don’t want to see your heart broken like that,” Kuroo concludes. “There’s a whole ocean out there.”

Bokuto pouts. Puts his two hands underneath his chin with a resigned attitude.

“She’s special though,” he murmurs, barely heard over the midday chatter.

“A lot of people are,” Kuroo replies with a touch of snark.

He shakes his head. _This is different,_ is all over his face. “She’s not anything like that—we’re similar. She’s said it before too. I know—” Bokuto bites the bottom of his lip. “She _needs_ me, Kuroo.”

It’s said with such sincerity that makes Kuroo almost believe it.

_Almost._

He lets out a soft sigh.

There’s two types of people Kuroo isn’t the best at reading.

One: the cold, silent type. This mainly applied to Tsukishima (and to some extent Kenma, depending on the situation).

Two: the complete opposite. The loud, boisterous type who act like they have nothing to hide.

Because a good lot of them actually have a thing or two they’re trying to hide.

The prime example is, of course, Bokuto. 

And he just fished out what Bokuto tried to keep a secret.

Kuroo’s not sure how Bokuto came to that conclusion. Not sure if he wants to _know_ how, either. It’d result in one of Bokuto’s lengthy and nearly endless ramblings, something he can only take in every once in a while.

“Isn’t she friends with Akaashi too? Childhood friends or something, if I remember correctly?” he asks, a puzzled expression on his face.

Bokuto shrugs. “Doesn’t say a thing about him at all.”

“What if she’s not the type to talk about others?” Kuroo presses forward. “Are you sure you’re not just projecting some ideal image of her in your mind?”

Bokuto visibly stiffens at this.

_Too far._

Kuroo bites the inside of his cheek. “Look, sorry—”

“What do you know about her?” Bokuto asks, his eyes emitting a strange intensity.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Definitely not anything more than you do.” A slight lie, but that's beside the point right now. “All I’m trying to say is—this person’s an adult. Just like us. She’s aware of the decisions she’s making.”

(then again, if it’s matters related to _this_ , he’s not so sure about the last statement. it’s not like he’s ever completely aware of his decisions either.)

There’s a couple seconds of silence that pass between them. Neither break their gaze.

Until—

Bokuto sighs.

“I know that, too,” he says quietly, looking at somewhere past Kuroo. “But I can’t help it.”

Bokuto Koutarou is somebody who tackles his problems head on. If he sees something as an issue, he’ll be the first to try and solve it. Out of sight and out of mind, because if he thought too long about it, it’ll only complicate him more. Kuroo supposes Bokuto’s urgency is a side-effect of this. And it’s something to be applauded at, depending on the situation.

Other times (like this one), it can cloud his judgement.

Bokuto's the type of person to fall in love fast. And hard. Kuroo doesn't have much authority to speak on the subject.

So they don’t say anything, again.

Kuroo resumes eating, adding in some more ingredients into the hotpot. Bokuto, however, doesn’t give his meal another glance.

“I have practice now,” Bokuto announces, standing up. He fishes out some bills from his wallet and places it on the table.

“Hey, that’s too much,” Kuroo points out. “I know your math is bad, but there's still some skills up in there.”

“For both of us,” replies the spiker. “Payback for the yakiniku last time.”

“Yakiniku and hot pot are two very different price ranges.”

“Just take it!”

There’s a gesture of thanks laced in with this sudden generosity. Maybe a plea too, to drop the subject now. It’s still a bit too early in the day for Bokuto’s practice to start.

But Kuroo’s nice. Maybe _too_ nice, so he lets Bokuto go.

There’s no remedy for falling in love fast. It’s irrational. Something that just happens, without warning. No label that listed any precautions. Everybody can only deal with its consequences.

He smiles, in the way that’s more out of resignation and a touch of pity for his friend.

“Alright then. See you around,” Kuroo says, with a hand raised in farewell.

Bokuto leaves the restaurant with a wave, leaving Kuroo to ponder at the aching realization of what this will turn into.

* * *

He knows. 

Really, truly knows, he should leave you alone. Even vowed to himself he’d do so.

But the sweets he bought for you would expire if they weren’t consumed in the next couple days. They’re sitting innocuously on his kitchenette counter in a plain brown bag with the shop’s logo printed on it in calligraphic strokes.

So Bokuto convinces himself that he’s doing this entirely out of concern for the food. He was not breaking his vow; he wouldn’t dare do that. He definitely did not pull out his phone and find your conversation. Definitely doesn’t ignore your message and text you, “ _I bought you something from osaka, i’ll leave it at your doorstep, hope you enjoy it_! _”_ with the right emotes to accompany it. 

And most definitely does not exit his apartment, place said bag at your doorstep, and waits behind his door with a bated breath for your response.

Even if he did do any of the above, it was again, just worries over the quality of the food. He’s not particularly attracted to how they taste, he thinks, and doesn’t eat them instead.

He waits.

And waits.

And waits. Stares at the chat on his screen for so long he can almost shoot laser beams from his eyes at it.

You don’t respond, leaving him on read.

His heart sinks.

But then, he hears the creaking of a door opening from outside. Bokuto’s definitely not excited at all upon hearing this development and his attention definitely doesn’t snap to the crack of his door. 

He sees a blur of motion and the bag immediately disappears from its place in front of your door. Purely out of instinct, Bokuto swings open his door, not because he wants to catch a glimpse of you.

But Ueno nights are silent, and this one is no different. Bokuto’s greeted by the stillness of the outside, not a single soul in sight.

With a pronounced sigh, he heads back inside.

* * *

(Here’s something that Bokuto remembers:

“Why do you live alone?" you asked him once on the balcony. It had been a particularly rough day for you, he could see it in the way your movements were more languid than usual, as if your time was a half-second shorter than the world clock.

Bokuto thought about his answer for a while.

Why did he live alone? It would be much easier if he had gotten a roommate, and even easier to ask—"Hey, do you wanna live with me in Ueno?"

 _"It's a bit far from my office,"_ Sarukui had replied. 

_"I'm gonna be living with Sarukui,"_ Komi added on. 

Washio was even further out, somewhere in Tochigi. Konoha practically gagged at the idea, even though he was just a ward over. Kuroo had lived with him for a couple years but then moved out, claiming Ueno was too boring for him. Now he’s in some arrangement with Kenma in the old house.

"Everybody had somebody else already," said Bokuto, resting his hands underneath his chin.

You gave him a look, one that invited him into whatever world you were looking at through your eyes.

“We’re the same then, aren’t we?” you said.

 _Alone,_ is the word you don’t say.

 _Alone,_ is the word he thinks.

There’s a chill in the air as the two of you stand in silence. He’s so close to you that if he reached out, he could touch your skin.

He doesn’t.

Here’s something that Bokuto remembers:

Your look, under the dim moonlight, is something he wants to keep for himself.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finals are over now...! i don't think the chapter length increasing will be a recurring thing, but that's what i thought to myself last time too, so we'll see. it's also the final chapter with a really long title...


	16. event horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are at a standstill, but it’s not the kind you wanted.
> 
> //
> 
> Come to think of it—
> 
> how much does he actually know about you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its almost 11k down there... have fun

March 25th comes all the same, despite everyone’s frantic attempts to stop the clock. Some of your classmates are staying in their studios overnight, others knocked out early in their dorms. You’re on a call with some others as you finish up the very last pieces in your apartment, phone on the desk. People in the fine arts department came and went, either for minutes or hours. Tachibana left a while ago to get some sleep.

“I’m not trying to say you’re stupid or anything, but did you _really_ need to make 130 new ones for this?” asks Uchiha, her voice filled with gravel from how late it is. “What about all of your old stuff?”

“Yeah, isn’t that kind of crazy? Like, are you sure you’re OK?” Rie adds on.

“Look me in the eye and ask me that question, I dare you,” you reply, though you don’t look at your screen. “It’s not _that_ bad. Really. Besides, who’s the one deciding to do a mural that spans the goddamn Great Wall of China?”

Actually, it’s pretty bad. You’ve managed to see the sunrise for the past couple days and skipped a couple classes because of it—but it fills up every crevice and crack of your thoughts, so you welcome it.

“It is literally just 10 meters,” Rie groans. “And I’ve been working on this since the semester started, not like, a month before our show. You are two steps away from burnout.”

You're well aware of this—another crash is looming over you, threatening to stop your brush from moving. Sometimes your mind goes blank for hours before you’re able to make a mark. Instead of fire, there’s just a drive to see through to the end.

“Live fast, die young,” you reply.

“That is _definitely_ not how that works.”

“Rie, you shouldn’t be talking either,” Ishikawa comments with a small sigh. “But why 130? Couldn’t you have done just 13 larger ones? Saves a lot of time and all.”

Your brush flicks a splatter of paint across the surface. “That’s because my encroaching feelings of normality make me compensate through making more and more stuff, else I won’t feel satisfied with what I’m doing.”

A low whistle. “Ouch. Big words, coming from a Nitten winner.”

“They got exposed for fraudulent judging one year.” You dip your brush into the jar of water, gently cleanse it off, and pick out another color. “Who knows, maybe I paid somebody behind the scenes to win it.”

“As if somebody living in a small apartment in Ueno could afford that.”

Your eyebrow raises. “What’s that you wanna say? I do this without a roommate too.”

“OK, OK, you win,” they chuckle, dropping that point of conversation. “I remember an alum my sister was friends with won that year for another category. Got kinda mad that he didn’t get the prize money.”

“Who wouldn’t be?” a third voice—Harada, the only one in sculpture out of the group—cuts in with a yawn. “Also, can one of you take a quick look at this? I think my eyes are failing me right now.”

“Yeah, I can help…”

The conversation switches to a muted discussion about the piece, serving as background noise while you examine your own. It’s the goldfish from the aquarium against a dark blue background, geometric white outlines running throughout. After taking extra care to make sure the fins looked transparent enough, as suggested by someone in critique, you have something like pride for it. Tomorrow, you needed to hang up the last 20 or so pieces.

“Oh yeah, the team I was rooting for lost their match a couple days ago,” Harada muses. “It was kind of sad to see them blow out their last match of their season.”

“What was it again you watched?” Rie asks, the sound of a large brush on canvas in the background. “Basketball? Baseball? Soccer?”

“It’s volleyball!” This immediately brings you back into the conversation. “How’d you get everything but that?”

“We are literally art students.”

“Doesn’t exclude you from common knowledge of sports, I think.”

“Try me.”

You think about what Bokuto asked you that one night—to go to the final game of the season in Ota. Unsurprisingly, you ended up not going, since it was during your weird hiatus with him. They lost the game by a set, but they already secured their spot in the finals.

“I need to hurry and get a ticket for the finals though,” Harada continues. “After that, I’ll be heading to America in a couple days.”

You should, too. April 7th, Bokuto mentioned once, with absolute confidence his team would go there. Fast forward to now, and they actually did. It'd only take around 2 hours to get there by bullet train, completely doable with your now opened up schedule.

“Mr. I-Got-Into-A-Fancy-School-In-New-York is too good for us, huh?” you quip, though there’s no snark. You pick up a small brush and start adding some highlights to the goldfish scales. “Already wants to leave us. Your mother is crying.”

“Why are you bringing my mother into this?”

“How’d you get into volleyball again?” Ishikawa asks, ignoring the banter.

Harada takes a sip from a drink before answering. “I used to play in high school. We weren’t any good, never made it to the nationals stage or anything, but I like to watch it from time-to-time.”

“Time-to-time he says,” Rie sighs good-naturedly. “But he’s still buying tickets for the final.”

“I can’t help it! This generation’s volleyball players are really good. They’re called the Monster Generation and there’s hopes for them to stand their ground internationally. If I can see them in person, I’m definitely gonna try!” Harada exclaims, the determination seeping out from his voice. “Volleyball’s a fast game. It gets you hyped right from the beginning.”

“We know, you’ve told us that already,” says Ishikawa with a smile. There’s a tinkling of delicate objects and a small expletive muttered out. “But I hope you get those tickets. Good luck.”

“Is it really that hard?” Uchiha cuts in. “Volleyball isn't all that popular in Japan, right?”

“Wow, that was cold. Good seats still fill up quickly!”

 _Should_ , however, is the operative word. Because after the show’s all over, you’re not sure what happens. A week and some more later now without seeing him (avoiding contact was easy enough since you hole yourself up in your apartment right after school), you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find yourself hovering over the keyboard to send something, _anything_ to Bokuto.

Your hand unconsciously grips the brush tighter. If you sent him something _now_ , before the show started, you’re not sure what that says about you.

So you restrain yourself, as petty as that sounds.

There’s a moment of silence that settles as everybody continues to work on their pieces. You do a couple idle taps with an orange color, holding out the canvas at random intervals to observe it wholly.

All of this talk that led to nowhere is just avoiding one singular question. But the atmosphere’s been steadily building up, the unspoken question riding along the undercurrents, biding its time to break surface, until—

“So. You guys ready?” someone asks.

A flurry of groans and shrieks ensue.

“Aaaa _aaaaagh_!” is the first thing that comes out of Rie’s mouth. Something sounding like a paintbrush falls to the ground, landing with a soft _thud_. “Don’t talk about it!”

“What else are we supposed to talk about?” Ishikawa says. “It’s all we’ve been doing since the start of this call. Aaaand we just passed 4 hours. Congratulations, everybody.” A couple people clap at this.

“When are we ever ready for anything? Ugh, I both wanna graduate and don’t,” Rie replies. The volume drops a bit as she picks up whatever fell onto the ground. “The real world is scary!”

“Can’t do much about that. We just have to face it.”

“Wow, even in the face of death you’d still remain cool, wouldn’t you?”

“We’ll decide that then,” is Ishikawa’s response, to the slight amusement of Rie. “That aside, I’m sure once tomorrow actually comes we’ll all be feeling less nervous.”

“Easier said than done,” a new voice cuts in, sounding distant. Mayama, one of the screenprinting majors. “Some of us have our futures riding on this here.”

“Sorry. But all the more reason not to be nervous, really.”

“And you really just don’t get it, huh?”

You’re not sure how to describe your feelings for tomorrow. There’s nerves, anxiety, with some excitement tossed around, but also relief that it’ll be over soon. The throngs of people you’d have to socialize with wasn’t something you were looking forward to, but that couldn’t be helped.

You’re not sure you’re ready, but who can ever confidently say they are?

“What’s the saying again?” asks Harada. “ _March comes in like a lion_ …”

“... _and exits like a lamb_ ,” Uchiha finishes, with a note of pride. “What about it?”

“This exit feels anything but,” he muses. A couple sounds of affirmation follow. “But I guess after everything’s over, it will. For just a bit.”

“Can’t wait for then,” you finally say, swirling your paintbrush in the jar of murky water. “I’ll finally get a break. Can sleep in for however much I want.”

“A break…” Rie’s voice trails off. “I think I’m gonna visit my parents in Nagano after this. Should probably do my filial duties or something.”

“Oh, I’ve got a flight down to Nara on the weekend.” Another new person, Watanabe, speaks as she stretches, her joints cracking in the process. “After that, I can finally go back home.”

“Nara, huh. That brings back memories,” Harada says. “To think it’s been a year since then.”

The fine arts department holds a two-week long worksop for the 3rd years in Nara and Kyoto. While intensive, it was an opportunity to learn about more traditional forms of art, giving exposure to a wide variety mediums.

“Gardens and temples were all we saw for two weeks straight. You were the one who snuck out to see the deer some more too,” Rie reminisces. “In the end, I never knew if Nishimura-sensei found out.”

“Oh, I remember hearing about the architect professor on the verge of cussing somebody out for not finishing their project on time during then,” says Ishikawa. “What was their name again…”

Everybody sighs, saying the same thing: “Mori, wasn’t it?”

“Didn’t he shave his head one year? Something about determination or motivation or whatever…” Watanabe ponders out loud. “That was a big shock. Especially since he had long hair before that.”

“He’s definitely an interesting character...”

“He once asked me to deliver something for him early in the semester,” you say, recalling that dreary Sunday. “Had to go all the way out to Yotsuya for that.”

“Sasaki helped somebody?” Rie fakes a tone of shock. “What happened?”

“Who do you take me for?” You roll your eyes. Deeming the goldfish painting to be complete, you take another from your desk and inspect it. It’s a beach in cloudy weather. “He gave me tempura and coffee for my efforts.”

“Like that’s supposed to be any better! You’re swayed too easily by food!”

“Am not,” you retort. “I just happened to be out already.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say.”

“Speaking of Nara,” begins Ishikawa. “Do you guys remember the time Matsumoto and Onishi almost wrecked that painting at the Kyoto inn we were staying at? And then used soy sauce to try and fix it?”

“Ah, he was in the room next to mine,” Harada replies. “I heard a lot of screaming going on in there. I think they pulled off a pretty nice job in the end though.”

Rie snorts. “Our skills are useful for restoring old inn paintings with soy sauce, glad to hear that.”

“Of course!” You can practically see Harada’s crooked grin. “We’re not Geidai graduates for nothing!”

There’s another stretched pause of silence, everybody’s thoughts wandering off to different branches with tired eyes and dark eyebags. Something like acceptance has settled in the atmosphere, blanketing everybody that’s a bit too thin for it to be cozy.

“I’ll miss you guys,” somebody says quietly.

“I won’t,” is Ishikawa’s immediate response. “You all have fucked up my sleep schedule more than enough.”

A wave of chuckles ripples over. “And who’s fault is it for staying up with us then?” Watanabe jabs. “I’ll miss you guys too. If you guys ever want to work on my farm, we’ll always be in need of hands. Though it’s down in Kyushu.”

“And I still can’t believe a graduate from Geidai is going to work on a farm afterwards,” replies Uchiha with a small sigh. “What a weird world we live in.”

“I’m still going to be doing some art,” Watanabe argues. “I’ll be a teacher at a local studio.”

“Maybe I should send my kids there then?”

“Like hell you’ll have them in the first place.”

Nobody says it this time around, but it doesn’t need to be spoken in words. The chances that everybody would cross paths afterwards is low, astonishingly low. Maybe a couple of collaborations or small reunions, but everybody was going their separate paths now, all over the world. Friendships from school born from close proximity. Once everybody’s out, something stronger has to anchor the friendships down, else they’ll float and dissolve into nothingness.

Rie. Ishikawa. Harada. Uchiha. Watanabe. Mayama. There’s some more, but they’re all names that’ll come and go. Over the years, they’ll fade away, one by one. Transitory. Fleeting. Four years of being together can be blown away by something as simple as a new city. 

Strangely though, it’s not sad. Bittersweet, if anything. Maybe that’s a part of adulthood—accepting the inevitability of change with a tired resignation, eyes looking to the future, arms outstretched to embrace the next step.

And _that_ was the reality graduation brought, that everybody was both ready and not to face.

“I should probably head to sleep now,” you finally say, setting down the canvas. “I think my eyes are gonna burn at this rate.”

“Me too,” Mayama chimes in. “We’ll see how I do with the three cups of coffee running in my system.”

“Goodnight then, the two of you,” Ishikawa says. “Sleep well.” A chorus of some more follow.

“You guys too. Don’t stay up too late,” you reply. “Though I guess saying something like that is kinda useless for some of you.”

“Then why’d you say it in the first place?” somebody asks.

“It’s called I care about your health. See you all.”

You leave the call with a lazy wave and slink back into your chair, letting out a long sigh as you close your eyes. Your hand twinges with the onset of a cramp and you massage it, hoping to relieve some of the pain. An assortment of different thoughts float into your mind, none sticking around. Memories of the four years come and go in fragments and you briefly wonder if you should’ve said something more heartwarming at the end or stayed on for just a little longer to chat.

But for some reason, you’re fine with how it ends. There’s still some slivers of time during graduation, anyways.

Your gaze falls to the final painting on the desk. This whole series too, was done in a timeline out of order. There was no particular reason why the goldfish was the final painting, it just ended up being like that. Your artist statement mentioned how the series was a mirror for life—its gaps and inconsistencies, the nonsensical moments that held tiny bits of clarity, the struggles and triumphs that came with each day, each week, each month, each year, accumulating over a lifetime.

( _that’s life!_ somebody says distantly.)

It’s funny how the more you tried to stray away from your grandfather in these works, the more you encompassed his ideas. His cascading waterfalls brought the sounds of rushing water to the ears, the spray of mist onto your face, the smell of the earth to your nose. They weren’t simply done from observation, though he visited many waterfalls around the world—there’s a sense of imagination imbued in them.

You’re not sure how sensorial yours is, but you did let your imagination run free for some of them. In the silence of your living room, you let out a small chuckle out of exasperation.

Things never work out as easily as intended, do they?

Your stomach rumbles. You walk over to the fridge and open the door, greeted by the low rumbling of the machine and a sole jar of sauce on the top shelf, forgotten. There’s various spice packets on the side, and of course, some juice at the very bottom.

Basically, nothing resembling a snack, unless you wanted to have some stomach problems later. Your stash of ramen had just run out earlier in the day too. The thought of doing a midnight convenience store run enters your mind. It’s not too chilly out now either, so you didn’t have to wear a heavy coat.

As you start to get ready to head out, you grab your phone on the desk. There’s a message notification.

It’s from Bokuto.

* * *

“Oi. What happened.”

“What do you mean?” Bokuto asks, though he has a sneaking suspicion of what’s to come.

“Today. _Obviously_.” Atsumu draws out the last word for emphasis. “Were my sets off?”

“No, not really,” is his quiet reply. They’re at a vending machine near a park, the both of them having decided to take a late night jog and coincidentally met up here. Bokuto presses the button for a water bottle. The machine whirs for a bit as the drink’s pushed forward, then it slides down.

“Then what happened? No taxes for you to be bothered with.” Atsumu isn't looking at him, sitting on a bench, but Bokuto can feel the irritated gaze prickling his body. “We should’ve won that one.”

Bokuto stoops down to reach for the drink. He twists the cap open and takes a seat at the bench next to Atsumu, focusing on the crescent moon against the dark sky. Not to anyone’s surprise, the park’s deserted. The shadows of the trees illuminated by the scant street lights scattered around sway on the ground. He takes a long sip from his water, providing some refreshment for his dry throat.

“Last game of the season for us. Not much of a point.” Bokuto shrugs, his arms draped across the bench. “Meian-san said so too. Conserve our energy when finals come around.”

Atsumu lets out a disgruntled noise at this. “We had the opportunity to _win_ at the last damn set, don’t give me that bullshit.” His eyes darken. “Conserve our energy, my ass. With how we did today, we don’t deserve to go.”

“That’s a bit too far, don’t you think?” Bokuto continues to look at the sky. He squints a bit, trying to spot some stars. It’s just a bit too cloudy tonight to see any.

“As if,” seethes Atsumu, crossing his arms. “You, especially. If you pull off whatever the hell you were doing today in the finals, you don’t deserve to be called an ace.” He kicks up a cloud of dust with his sneakers. “ _Not much of a point_ , damn that. You saying you’re fine with losing?”

Bokuto’s well aware of Atsumu’s mental regression whenever volleyball comes into play, so he’s not terribly hurt by those words. Akaashi once mentioned something like 5 years being the difference, which meant Atsumu is around 17 when he’s on the court.

And while Bokuto wouldn’t admit this outright, mostly due to him not being really aware of it, he’d say there’s just a smidge of similarity with him and the setter. His Emo Moods are the prime example of this—if those didn’t scream classic teenager, he’s not sure what does. Even now, there’s still moments when he’s _dangerously_ close to falling back into them, but he’s mostly stable now.

At least, he likes to think this. None of his Emo Moods are caused by things that happened in-game anymore, that’s for sure.

Bokuto finally turns to face the golden-haired setter, whose face is the textbook definition of pissed off. “Have you met anybody who’s playing on our level that likes to lose?” he asks.

Atsumu scoffs. “Course not. What kind of question is that?”

“Right? Like if you like losing, what are you even doing playing a competitive sport?” Bokuto laughs. It echoes in the trees, spooking a flock of birds that fly off in a hurry.

“That doesn’t mean we’re gonna be winning everything though,” he continues. Suddenly, the mirth dissipates from his face, replaced by a serious look. “Seasons like that are basically impossible. Sometimes your best on one day just won’t be enough, no matter what. You know this too, don’t you? You accept that and grow from it.” He tilts his head in thought. “Wait, but that one cross I hit that went _juuust_ out of bounds did feel kind of bad though.”

“What’s your point.”

“My point? Did I have one? Erm…” Bokuto squints his eyes in thought, to Atsumu’s increased exasperation. “Oh! I got one!” His face lights up once again. “How about: don’t worry about it too much? The Phoenixes were just a better team today. Wasn’t your school’s team motto something like _we don’t need memories_?”

There’s something in Bokuto’s chest that twists a little weirdly saying these words. He still vividly remembers Kuroo’s talk from last week, his friend’s words fresh in his mind. _She’s aware of the decisions she’s making_. He knows what he tells Atsumu is something he needs to apply to himself, too.

What were Bokuto’s decisions?

He wanted to know you, first and foremost.

Bokuto wanted to know the life of somebody who also saw comfort in standing on the balcony during the mornings.

“That’s all you have to say?” Atsumu rolls his eyes. If he picked up on any of Bokuto’s thoughts, he doesn’t mention it. “And _that_ and _this_ are two completely different things. Bad performances can bleed into the next, then it’ll snowball out of control. Everybody knows that.”

“You think?” Bokuto takes another sip from his water. “Can’t say much about that for other people, I’m not really sure. But”—he thumps his fist to his chest for extra emphasis, also in a way to convince himself—” you can trust me that I won’t let that happen. It’s my role as an ace, after all.”

Atsumu doesn’t speak, instead opting to rest his chin on his hands, jutting out his lower lip. His face is less outright angry and more just fuming inwardly now. But Atsumu was never one to linger on something for very long, so Bokuto thinks he’ll be fine this time around too.

Over the years, Bokuto’s tried to fill the role as an ace as best as he can, both on court and off. People always thought it weird that he got over his mood swings so quickly, especially right at the very end of high school. But Bokuto’s always been a bit more _self-aware_ about who he is, more than he lets on in conversation.

The wake-up call he got at the end of his third year in high school during Nationals was that Bokuto Koutarou’s existence wasn’t even good enough to be _ordinary_ , all things considered. 

They lost against some dark horse of a team that wasn’t even a favorite to win the tournament. None of the players were even that well known. Bokuto’s not even sure if their members were in the pro leagues. Some dismissed the win as a fluke.

But that team still won.

In sports, results are what makes or breaks a career. If you win, no matter who you are, you get the fame and glory that came along with it. This builds up over the years, and soon people come to _expect_ winners.

So that team, without any expectations on them, stole the whole show from beneath everyone’s feet.

And _that_ was something extraordinary, despite how _ordinary_ they were.

Because only ordinary people can make extraordinary things happen. 

He saw somebody on the balcony who looked completely ordinary. But their eyes were at some place he could never reach, no matter how hard he tried.

And weren’t all of those people lonely?

At least, that’s what he _thought._

Atsumu finally speaks again, breaking the heavy silence. “Who supports the people that support others then?” he asks quietly, not entirely looking for an answer.

“Hmm. Not really sure about that either,” replies Bokuto, his eyes trained onto nothing in particular. “But they probably have somebody out there for them.”

The concept that he’s a pillar of support was partly because the world gives him people.

The other part, due to him utilizing his easygoing and sociable nature as a weapon.

Against loneliness.

Everything he did, was really only ever for himself.

Somebody—Konoha or Kuroo, probably—once mentioned to Bokuto that he’s always been a bit too fast to fall in love. _It’ll bite you hard later_. 

But now that he’s thinking about it, he’s not sure if he’s really ever fallen in love.

 _Smothered_ , they had once said. Relationships are supposed to be giving your all. That's what he thought he did—

but wasn't he just taking and taking from them?

Asking for a love more than they could ever give?

Kuroo had asked him if he liked you. He didn’t know how to reply to that, so he just said, “what if I do?” He’s not sure how Kuroo read that answer, but there wasn’t any hidden meaning behind it. _What if_ he did? 

Was there something wrong if he was? 

Now that he’s thinking about it—you had other people too, didn’t you? Akaashi, for starters, that you’ve known since forever ago. Kuroo had asked him, _what about Akaashi?_ Even Sugawara too.

But then he saw that ordinary person on the balcony looking broken. Lost. Their eyes were tired, in a way that was directed towards everything around them.

If you had those people around you, why would you look like that?

That was when he decided, he wanted to be your friend.

Through some experimentation and experience, Bokuto’s learned just about how to work with all sorts of people. Despite everybody having their own quirks and individualities, people become _predictable_. Artists are no different—Komi and Akaashi, while not explicitly artists, still worked in the creative fields.

He was excited getting to know you, because he wanted to know what an ordinary person doing extraordinary things was like. They called his generation the Monster Generation—everybody was special. Bokuto wanted to be the ordinary in the midst of everybody. The strong had expectations placed on their shoulders. Somebody ordinary just had to do their job.

And somewhere down the line, knowing you bled into his desire of being a support for others. 

So he wanted to become your support. He was happy you embraced it.

Somewhere down the line, Bokuto thought you needed him.

A bird chirps in the distance. The wind rustles with the branches. Atsumu takes another sip from his drink, emptying the bottle and crushing it in his hand. There’s probably something going on in his mind too, Bokuto distantly registers.

Then you said you didn’t want to be _bothered._

Thinking back on it now, he said that in a fog of uncertainty, in the too-warm atmosphere of a small hotpot restaurant you once mentioned you liked.

He should’ve been OK with this. Give you some space. You even said you were busy. It’s not like the two of you hung out every day (though sometimes, it was damn near close). He takes and takes, and he’s probably taken too much from you more than you can handle.

So again, he should’ve been OK with this. Let you breathe.

And he more or less is, by now. A week later, and he’s still the same Bokuto Koutarou.

Except—he also isn’t.

It’s only been a week, and yet he still misses you.

He _needs_ to give you space.

But he doesn’t _want_ to.

How does such a contradiction exist in the world?

How was he supposed to predict this?

Bokuto looks to the sky again. Some of the clouds have cleared away, revealing a couple faint specks of light against the dark expanse.

“Wanna go get something to eat?” he finally asks, getting up to stretch his limbs. “I think I want to pick up something as a gift too.”

“We’re still in Tokyo, what the hell is there to give?” huffs Atsumu, but he stands up anyway, crushing the plastic bottle in his hand.

“Let’s find out then!” Bokuto grins. He slaps Atsumu’s back with a bit more strength than intended as they exit the park.

“Ouch ouch ouch,” Atsumu winces, rubbing the spot where he was hit. “Watch it!”

He laughs.

“My bad!”

Maybe his idea that the world gives him people was born out of selfishness too.

He doesn’t like being alone. He tries to find people to fill the empty spaces next to him. He wants to help those who need a hand. Because nobody deserves to be alone.

Because he’s the ace.

(Because he’s alone.)

Nobody’s completely selfless. Helping others isn’t always done fully from the bottom of the heart. There’s really nothing wrong with this, because there’s simply no absolutes in the world.

You as well, aren't absolute.

To some, it might be weird that he thought this much about a friend. But Bokuto’s always considered his friends precious. The fact that you agreed to put up with everything only cemented that.

He saw somebody on the balcony. An ordinary person doing extraordinary things.

Bokuto just wanted to know what it was like.

Under the soft glow of the streetlamps and the tall buildings, Bokuto and Atsumu wander the city in silence, their soft footsteps on the pavement and the nightly ambience the only thing to be heard. A couple cars pass by on the road, their beams of light flashing by, like flashlights in search for something.

 _Isn’t that love?_ a small voice asks. _To find the missing pieces of yourself?_

Was that selfish too, then?

Again, he doesn’t know.

So he’ll wait for once.

(but on second thought, he's not so great at the whole _being patient_ thing, so he buys you something small in a small shop.)

The ball’s on your side.

* * *

There’s still three minutes away from March 26th, according to your phone.

 _nice—_ backspace.

 _appreciate it—_ backspace.

 _gracias—_ backspace. You’re not even sure if he knows the language.

You groan in frustration, hands gripping tightly at your phone. How good his Spanish is honestly doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

The message in question:  
  


**loud neighbor**

_I hope you don’t mind, but I got you some nori chazuke from ota!!! My friend said that there’s nothing from ota, but I proved him wrong!_ (23:54)

_The store owner was really nice and gave me some for free since I bought a bunch from there!! I left it outside your door, make sure to get it before it’s stolen!!_

_sleep well!!_ (23:55)

Without even needing to scroll up, you can still see Bokuto’s message from last week, complete with emojis. Up some more is the last text you sent him.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard.

There’s still two minutes until March 26th.

A hollow chuckle escapes your lips. If you couldn’t even last for a week and some more, you didn’t want to know what that said about yourself. 

So how is waiting for the exact second the day changed any different?

It’s a feeble pretense set up, a front you desperately constructed in a haste, because you didn’t want to know what lies on the other side.

Didn’t you already learn? That sometimes the only thing you can do is to jump in headfirst, even if you didn’t know what would be there?

You press the side of your body against the wall as you slide off your shoes, still staring at the text. There’s some bits of rice left in the cooker you could gather up into a small bowl and pour the _chazuke_ on top. Knowing Bokuto, he probably had some other surprise in the bag, too.

 _Knowing Bokuto._ A corner of your mouth tugs upwards, half out of resignation, half out of whatever the hell is in your chest. It didn’t take a mastermind to see the overuse of exclamation points in Bokuto’s previous texts were just a veil, acting like everything was normal between the two of you.

Since when could you say those words so casually? _Knowing Bokuto_. It sounded like a shitty D-list melodrama made in the 60s. _Knowing Bokuto._ Did you really have the privilege of doing so?

Can you say those words, even if you didn’t even know about yourself? There’s guilt, there’s regret, fighting against reason and logic in your chest. Or were those too, just a pretense?

You read over the last message he sent. _That idiot_ , you think. _You should be getting some sleep too_.

(then again, that applies to yourself as well.)

One minute away.

With your slippers on, you walk to the front door and open it with a crack. Sure enough, an inconspicuous-looking bag greets you at your doorstep. _From Bo—hope you enjoy!_ is scrawled on it in large, crooked handwriting. You take the bag, and close the front door behind you softly.

Peeking inside, there’s packets of the nori chazuke and, as you suspected, something at the bottom. As you walk to your kitchenette, you pull out a small stuffed plush toy of a bunny wearing a bright yellow hat, carrying a basket for an onsen. There’s a smile on its face, though it looks somewhat ominous with how dark its eyes are. _Sorry this isn’t food!_ is taped on its belly with a crudely-drawn sad face. You roll your eyes at this. _This is Hanepyon!_ _Ota’s mascot! Isn’t it cute!_ is the next line.

For a mascot, it did its job well. The Hokkaido ones—Marimokkori, Melon Bear, Zushihocky, to name a few—were the stuff of literal nightmares. The bear is downright scary with a melon for its head. Zushihocky is a white lanky _mass_ with a creepy, unsettling smile. Marimokkori, if not in its trademark greens, would be arrested and thrown in jail (reason: being a pervert).

You stand in front of the rice cooker, gathering up the clumps of rice with the spoon and dumping it into a bowl. Some people in the call mentioned they were going back to see their parents over the spring. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to visit Hokkaido during then, the frigid winter now over. Springtime isn’t so bad.

And you probably should, too. _Filial duties_ , Rie had said earlier.

That doesn’t mean you wanted to, as childish as that sounds.

March 26th arrives as you shake the packet of nori into your bowl. You take a bite, the slight warmth mixed with the seaweed travelling down your throat as you swallow. Nothing to write home about, but it’ll do for the night.

You blink. Suddenly you’re standing on your balcony with the bowl and chopsticks in hand.

_How did this happen?_

Muscle memory, a part of you chides. A sudden chill runs through your fingers, in remembrance of a cold metal can.

In front of you is the same old Ueno, sleepier than normal. A couple window lights remain turned on, and soon they’d flicker off too. You vaguely remember wondering to Akaashi who else would be up right now. _Only the weird ones_ , you told him. Nothing good ever comes out from staying up so late. Even though it was only four months ago, it felt like a year passed since then.

You look up to the dark sky, a slice of a moon greeting you, along with a sole, faint star, trying its best to shine.

It’s silent for once.

 _Too_ silent, maybe.

So silent that you can actually hear it.

You sneak a glance to the balcony next to yours. There’s no light on in there, but Bokuto’s never been one to turn on the light.

Something inside you is waiting for something else.. Your wandering imagination takes you to a door to slide open, a tall figure to emerge with a grin, two cans of Sapporo in hand. It’s waiting for the regular conversation that seemed to have no direction or purpose.

It’s waiting for _him_.

But he doesn’t come.

Only a couple weeks ago since the last one, yet it felt like an eternity ago.

Your eyes travel back to the sky. _How unfair_ , you ponder as your eyelids close, _am I being right now?_

The week and some more flies by both slower and quicker than you expected. Quickly, because it was only a speck of time compared to the rest of the school year.

Slowly, because you hadn’t realized how abrupt everything all was. When you cut somebody off, you’re still reminded of their presence. Even though Bokuto’s prodding you (gently, still) with these little souvenirs, he wasn’t pushing you to do anything.

He’s waiting for you. You’re waiting for him.

Things are at a standstill, but it’s not the kind you wanted.

Your fingers tremble. The fact that if you called out Bokuto’s name right now and he’d probably come out doesn’t escape your mind. Another glance to his balcony. There’s a couple chairs set up and a towel of faded blue hanging from the edge, something he probably forgot to take in.

But there’s probably a better way to talk to him. You needed sleep, too. The long phone call tonight all but drained you out.

Your mind travels back to the late calls you had with Akaashi. Asides from a couple nights he didn’t, he picked up those calls despite being at ungodly hours in the morning. Hunching over the railing, you eat another bite of rice, looking out to nothing in particular.

That wasn’t fair of you either, wasn’t it?

Wanting to talk to him—that was pretense too, wasn’t it?

So why did you call him?

Somewhere in the distance, one of the window lights flicker off. Soon after, a couple more follow. The day for them is now over. Without even needing to look, you know yours is part of a few, if not the only one, still turned on in your complex.

The first time you called Akaashi two years ago was purely because you forgot to do so earlier in the day. You weren’t even expecting him to pick up, but to your pleasant surprise, he did. Some weeks later, you tried calling him again. 

And again. 

And again. 

And again. 

And the routine stuck.

People both don’t change, yet still do over the years. Akaashi’s no exception. He lost the baby fat in his cheeks and grew a good couple heads taller than you when you saw him again, but still the same quiet Akaashi Keiji you knew from all those years back. The same one that’d carry you on his back when you got hurt. The same one that opened his window (albeit a bit reluctantly) late at night to chat.

The same one, that believed you could become an artist.

 _Existence_ , you once thought was the only thing tying the two of you together now. 

That wasn’t it. People both don’t change, yet still do over the years. Relationships, while they grow and shift with time, follow the same rule. All those years ago, when you were still a kid, in a city too big and too tall for your wide eyes to comprehend, you saw a boy alone under a tree of the house next to yours.

 _He’s the same_ , you thought then.

Alone.

So you reached out to him, the boundaries of what’s considered _legal_ still not entirely embedded in your mind. A small exhale of laughter escapes from your mouth. Being friends back then was simpler, much more so than now— _hey, wanna be friends?_ —is all you had to ask. 

Your chopsticks grasp for another chunk of rice, only to find air instead. You look down, seeing an empty bowl.

And deep down, there’s an inkling of an answer as to why you really called him at the hours you did. But you’re just a bit too tired to search some more. Is there really a need to find out why? If Akaashi still diligently picked up, wasn’t he fine with it all too?

(or maybe, you’re just afraid of the answer.)

But he doesn’t deserve what you gave back, really. Nobody does. Messing up his sleep schedule, crashing into his house over winter break. Outside of that, you saw him two, three times—one not even out of your own volition. That sort of friendship works with some people.

But for you and him, this was born out of your own selfishness. 

Maybe that’s too strong of a word. _Selfish_. Aren’t all relationships to some extent, because of one’s own wants?

Still, Akaashi took everything you dumped onto him—though not without his own remarks—and accepted it all. Akaashi’s never been the one to exceed and overflow the mould he’s fit himself in. Never been one to demand. He’s more or less found his footing in the world now, despite quitting college to do so (at least, that’s what you think—he never went over his job in great detail, and you’re not sure if you should’ve asked).

Bokuto, on the other hand, is always pushing the cracks just centimeters away before the whole thing breaks. Always something to say, something to do. Even without him, his presence makes itself known. Sometimes, you can _feel_ his voice lingering around; the loud tone, the brazen yet grounded confidence, the assurance underneath it all. 

Is there one that’s better than the other? You don’t think so.

Would it be better if you knew?

You don’t know.

“What the fuck,” you whisper to the night, your elbows on top of the railing. “This doesn’t make any sense. It’s all just stupid and dumb.”

Your only response is from the branches rustling in the distance. 

You head back inside with heavy eyelids. The bowl’s set in the sink, to be washed at a later time. Without another thought, you hop into bed, pulling the blanket on top of you and start to surrender your body to sleep.

As you slowly drift off, in the world that exists between the waking and the dream one, you dimly think your throat’s just a tad bit drier than you liked.

* * *

Here’s a recurring dream you have.

You’re whisked to a snowy landscape with not a sign of life in sight. A vast expanse of white. Strangely, you’re never cold—or maybe your body’s too numb to feel it.

There’s a canvas sitting on an easel some distance away. Your boots trudge through the thick snow as you walk over to it. Paints and a brush are laid out. They should be frozen stiff, small blocks of colored ice, but they’re somehow malleable.

It’s always the same painting. You paint the cold land that stretches on endlessly in front of you until your body can’t move. Whoever was the god of this dream charged you to carry out this doomed task, as if it’s your form of eternal punishment. Freezing to death in a winter with now end.

Except today, the sun rises. Your fingers slowly thaw from the warmth (or maybe you’re imagining it) and your limbs move again (or maybe you forced them to).

And you paint its fire onto the canvas.

* * *

The latter half of March 26th arrives both too slowly and too quickly.

You’re walking around with Tachibana before the whole thing starts, as slipping away for this one wouldn’t be so easy. The two of you exchange greetings with some of your classmates along the way. As the graduation show only extended to the seniors, there’s more works from each student. The culmination of everybody’s experiences in paintings, sculptures, prints, photographs, and everything in between hang proudly on the walls and from the ceilings in the university museum. 

“We finally did it, huh,” she muses, while waving to one of her friends in the design department. Today, Tachibana’s outfit is less of a visual attack, wearing a simple gray pleated dress with a navy blue ruffle at the collar. A small black hat sits atop her head crookedly, decorated with colorful flowers and a velvet bow. Something about a mourning-but-make-it-fashionable look, she mentioned.

“There’s still the actual graduation itself,” you point out. Again, you’ve elected to wear something on the simple side, a bit more formal than the midyear festival. “Then we’ll have really done it.”

“That’s just the formal stuff.” She takes a large bite from her takoyaki. “It’s this one that counts the most,” she says between chews.

After the whole breakup incident a couple weeks ago, Tachibana’s more or less _alright_ now, but there were days when she came to school with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands, not just from the caffeine. She didn’t talk about it again, but there were moments when she zoned out in the middle of whatever she was doing. Doing her best to keep herself moving forward. All you could offer to her was a pat on the back. 

Harada’s wooden sculptures come into view. You give a nod to him (who recently bleached his hair to a more sandy-brown tone—without his mustache, he might’ve passed as an idol) and exchange the usual small talk. 

“Feels like everything’s gonna change after this,” you say after waving the man goodbye.

“But we say that with every year that comes around, I think,” Tachibana replies.

You shrug. “Probably. But I don’t have school to go to anymore.”

Whether you wanted or not to apply to graduate school, the deadline for applications passed already, slipping through your fingers. You’re not sure if you can handle school for much longer (and a small part of it is out of spite for Daisuke). 

“That’s pretty nice though. You deserve a nice break.”

“Then you realize you have to do the whole _surviving_ thing.” A shudder passes through your body. “My lease is ending soon. Maybe I should give the landlord a gift so I can get in her good graces...”

Tachibana gives you a concerned smile and a thumbs-up. “Good luck dealing with that.” 

“I don’t need luck, I need money.”

“That’s what today’s for, isn’t it?”

After some more circling around a couple pit stops, and some idle chatter about what’s on display, the two of you arrive back at your exhibitions.

“There’s a word for it,” she says out of the blue.

“For what?”

“You said that everything’s going to change from this point on, right? The point of no return.” She curls a strand of dyed gray hair with her finger in thought. “Ah, it’s on the tip of my tongue, but I just can’t remember…”

There’s a word for it. What is it again?

From somewhere in the depths of your brain—

“ _Event horizon_ ,” you recall vaguely. “Or something like that.”

“Oh, sounds about right. Event horizon _,_ ” Tachibana echoes to herself. “That makes it sound like we’re in a space movie.”

“I’m pretty sure it has to do with black holes, so that’s probably why.”

“Black holes… is that what our future is?” she asks, dread creeping in her voice.

“I for one, welcome the black hole.”

It’s inane conversation, just like last night’s call. But it’ll be one of the last times something like this can happen. You sneak a glance to her face, which holds a small smile.

Before you’re able to say anything—

“Doors are opening soon!” somebody calls out.

“Well, good luck to the both of us then.” Tachibana gives you a little wave. There’s a bit of sadness flickering in her eyes.

You smile back.

“Yeah. Good luck.”  
  


* * *

Akaashi knew something happened when he got a text from Bokuto, asking him to go to your graduation show together, claiming he’d “ _get really lost!!”_ if Akaashi wasn’t there. While Bokuto’s sense of direction isn’t the best, it’s not like him to forget a place he’s been to already.

But he obliges, because he’s going as well. His parents decided to push their move out to Saitama earlier than expected (something about a good deal). Akaashi knocks on the door to Bokuto’s apartment in the late afternoon, distantly wondering when was the last time he’s been to this place.

“Akaashi! Hey hey hey!” the spiker greets him cheerfully. “Nice to see you! Let’s go then!”

He nods in greeting. They take the flights of stairs down, Bokuto trailing behind him by a couple steps.

As they exit the complex, Akaashi’s just about to start walking, when he turns around and—

“Bokuto-san. Why are you standing still there?” 

A look of worry is all over Bokuto’s face, who’s standing right in front of the stairway entrance. Luckily, nobody else is coming. “I’m not actually sure if this is a good idea…” he says with a frown.

“Why not? You were the one who proposed to go together.”

“Yeah, but…” Bokuto crosses his arms and taps his toe rapidly on the pavement. “Me and Sasaki are… kind of in a tight spot right now? So I’m not sure if I should really go...”

_When did this happen?_

Akaashi turns to face him fully. “I’m not sure on the details, but she probably won’t notice you unless you personally approach her,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “There’s going to be a lot of people there, much more than the midyear one.”

Bokuto scrunches up his face some more.

After a couple moments—“Hmm… if you say so, I guess.” With long strides, he starts walking again.

Akaashi wonders if he should ask what happened. Bokuto’s not particularly acting like anything’s gone wrong. If whatever happened was bothering him, it’s hidden quite well. Usually there were small actions that slipped by—a drop of the cheery mask, more fidgeting than normal, or a couple glances sneaked at Akaashi. 

Today, none of these occur.

So he decides not to ask.

“I bought my ticket for the finals recently,” Akaashi says. They’re walking amongst a row of trees, green leaves illuminated orange by the setting sun. "Though I don't think I'll be able to stay for very long.

Bokuto gives him a thumbs-up. “Kuroo’s coming too! Well, I guess it’s kind of expected for him. Are there tickets still left?”

“Possibly. When I was booking mine there were still quite a number of seats available,” he says. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” replies Bokuto, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as a breeze passes by. “I wonder if it’s too late to get some now?”

“Kuroo-san could help you with that, if you wanted,” Akaashi says. Was he getting one for you? “That’s related to his work, after all.”

“Oh!” His face lights up. “Good idea!” His face falls in the next second. “But… maybe I shouldn’t? Hmm…”

Bokuto’s not looking directly at Akaashi, and the editor briefly wonders if he should push further. The chances that this was related to you is even higher now.

They reach the bus stop, where a couple other people are waiting around. 

“Do you know if Sasaki is the type to hold a grudge?” Bokuto suddenly asks. It’s so softly spoken that Akaashi’s not sure if he heard him speak the first time.  
  
“Er.” He thinks about this for a bit. From what he remembers way back then, there were certainly people you disliked, but never lasting for very long.

Or did you? Akaashi’s not sure if he remembers correctly in the first place.

“I’m not entirely sure. I don’t think she is,” is his response.

Come to think of it—

how much does he actually know about you?

He can’t use the present day. If there’s one person from _now_ that you might’ve held a grudge against, Bokuto’s the only option that comes to mind, truthfully. Akaashi again wonders what happened to warrant this kind of question. Or whether there’s a point at all wondering, because what you have with Bokuto isn’t something he should intrude upon.

“Hmm, that so.” Bokuto rubs his hands together in an attempt to warm them up. “Thanks.” 

And he’s probably thinking a bit too much about it.

The bus comes. They board it. Against the sound of Bokuto’s musings about the finals and the light traffic, Akaashi wonders.

* * *

For what it’s worth, the graduation show is tolerable at best. 

A blur of bodies pass in and out. Some are clients of yours, looking curiously at your recent works, inquiring about the inspiration behind it all. The few that knew your grandfather were pleasantly surprised (at least, what you wanted to think) at how different things are now, but they don’t mention it. Others are the shy underclassmen, who bow upon greeting you and give you nervous praise. Most pass by examining everything with an awed silence.

A couple that do talk to you—

“But what’s with these titles? _Sunday nights are work nights_ , _Sunday nights are party nights_ , _Reconciliation talks break down…_ actually, I’m not even going to finish reading that, isn’t that a bit long?” Yamada’s normally stern face turns inquisitive as she examines the listings on a wall.

“That’s why I also have titles like the dates and times in there,” you point out. “A healthy mix of everything.”

Yamada came in some time after the opening. Immediately upon entrance, a look of surprise overtook her. When you saw her, you gave her a small smile, half unsure of how she took it.

“I can understand why the last commission I requested from you had quite a different feeling now,” she says to you, her attention is now back on the paintings. “To think you had something like this still stored inside!”

“I don’t think it’d be that interesting if all I knew were how to paint figures,” you reply, tongue-in-cheek.

She finally turns to face you, her dark eyes sparkling curiously underneath the spotlights.

“You’ve changed a bit, haven’t you?” she asks, with a hint of amusement laced in her tone. The corners of her mouth are raised almost imperceptibly.

“It’s my show, after all.”

The wooden flooring and walls with your work aren’t the cover for a Vogue Living magazine. People of that caliber passed through, but this is _your_ space of residence. What people thought, what they expected, what they _wanted_ , if they found it here, they’re free to stay. If they didn’t, that was their problem.

Some time later—

“Well, isn’t this quite the sight to see.”

You look behind you after crossing off a couple paintings just sold off on the list.

“Good evening, Nanase-san.” You bow to the man, dressed in his usual business-casual attire, white hair pulled back in a low ponytail. “It’s nice to see you again. I was wondering when you’d show up.”

“Good evening. I had some trouble with my back today, so it took me later than normal to arrive. My apologies about that.”

You raise an eyebrow. He chuckles.

“All in jest. I am still perfectly healthy, even if my age doesn’t show it. That aside—” his gaze sweeps around the whole exhibition. “This gives me the impression that you’ve shattered your large works into much smaller ones.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” you reply, following his gaze.

“Hmm. But I think that’s still too simple to say. You took the shattered pieces and created your own works of art with them. Personally—” he pauses to adjust his glasses. “I think you’ve done quite well. Your grandfather would be proud. Of course, you should be, too.”

“Thank you. It’s an honor hearing that from you.”

Even later—

You hear your name called out in the distance as a conversation with a client just finishes. They leave you with a bow. Looking around the exhibition, you quickly spot two men walking over to you, holding some styrofoam boxes of food in their hands and a paper bag.

“Azumane! And Sugawara!” You wave at them. “Thanks for showing up!”

“I wouldn’t want to miss this,” Sugawara beams. His angelic face is as usual, a nice sight for sore eyes. “No wonder why you never replied to my text!”

“You texted me?”

“Wow, that was cold!” He shivers. “Now I don’t want to give you my gift!”

“Sorry!” You hold up a hand in apology. “That was my mistake, honestly.”

“He says gift, but he got it just a couple hours ago, so don’t mind him,” Azumane says with a gentle smile. His own show is on the last day with the rest of the fashion students, 

Sugawara jabs the man at his side with his elbow, who winces slightly. “She doesn’t need to know that! But here—” he hands you the paper bag. “I’m going to be leaving for Miyagi pretty soon, so...”

He doesn’t complete the sentence, but you know fully well what it meant. You check the contents of the bag, and sure enough, boxes of your favorite tea fill it to the brim.

“Sugawara…” You look back at him with a sad frown, barely able to hold back the welling of tears in your eyes. “You should’ve told me sooner! Actually, telling this during my show is kind of sad! Where’s your sense of context?”

“That’s why I texted you, but you never responded…” his voice trails off with a resigned shrug. “Well, it’s whatever now. I’m glad I caught you here, at least.” Sugawara takes in everything on the walls. “But I don’t remember your works being like this at all?”

“Tachibana called it an evolution that day, but I just took a different approach with this. No Pokemon levelling up or anything.” You study his face curiously, which flows from slight confusion and settles on a mild understanding in a fluid transformation. Seeing people's reactions was an unexpected source of amusement tonight.

“So this is the grand finale?”

You shake your head. “Not really, honestly. It’s more like I’m finally at the start line.”

“Huh.” Sugawara nods thoughtfully. “I think I can understand that. Like how I finally have my teaching license now, but here’s where the real challenge begins or something.”

“Now that sounds like something out of a shonen manga.”

He laughs, and you briefly wonder many times you were going to hear that again. “I guess so,” he replies. “Tokyo’s been fun, but this city is just a bit too fast for me, I think.”

“Country bumpkin down to the bones, huh?” you grin.

Sugawara rolls his eyes. “As if you’re in any place to speak from, Miss Hokkaido.”

“Sapporo is a big city in its own right.” You cross your arms, but you're unable to hide your grin. “But, if you’re leaving and all, I should probably do this—” 

You walk over to the left side of your gallery and take off a painting from the wall. Then going over to the long list of works on sale, you cross off this piece’s title— _He Didn’t Drink Asahi_ —and then hand it over to Sugawara.

“Here. A small reminder of your time in Tokyo, then.” You present the painting to him, to which his mouth forms a small ‘o’ shape in shock and awe.

“Are you—are you really sure about this?” he asks, slightly flustered. “What I gave you can’t hold up to this at all!”

“I’ve got more than enough here, don’t worry so much over a piece or two! But—” you lean forward slightly for emphasis, forming a circle with your thumb and index finger. “I am always open to generous financial donations.”

Sugawara chuckles. “Aren’t we all."

* * *

Akaashi and Bokuto arrive at the university museum after a quick walk in the quiet district. There’s floods of people spread out on the grounds, coming in and out of the museum. The smell of festival food permeates the air, and Bokuto is drawn towards the rows of stalls like the opposite poles of a magnet. After getting some food, the two head inside the museum.

It takes a bit longer this time around to find your exhibition as it’s sandwiched in the middle of some others on the second floor, but he eventually does find you, chatting with some other people. As usual, he waits for them to leave while observing your work. Bokuto’s hanging around somewhere near the back.

Everything’s _different_ , is all he can say.

You were never one for pure realism in your works, some things left unrecognizable, but this was another scale altogether. He thinks he recognizes bits and pieces from them—there’s icing from the parfait you ordered, a house window, his plate of food from that izakaya.

He glances your way. As usual, you have the trademark heavy eyebags and a slightly frazzled look, but there’s something like contentment settling in your features. He turns back to the paintings, trying to take in everything. Bits and pieces. Fragments of life, all scattered in a nonsensical way across the walls.

“Hey, Keiji-kun. Glad you could make it to this one,” you say. He turns around to face you. As usual, there’s a half-smile on your face.

“Of course. My parents unfortunately couldn’t come, they told me to give you their apologies," he replies, biting his tongue afterwards. Why does he have to sound so _formal_ all the time?

You brush it off with a wave. “Tell them it’s fine. Not like I’m not becoming an artist anymore after this.”

“That’s true,” he agrees, with a slight smile of his own. “I am excited to see you become the best artist there is. You said you were doing that, after all.”

You look askance. “Ugh. Please don’t say that ever again," you mutter. That sounds really embarrassing now.”

“I suppose so.”

A beat later: “But, I honestly am excited to see where you go from here.”

“You can afford to sound like it more then,” you jab, though there’s a spark of kindness in your eyes. “It’s like you’re a robot or something.”

“My apologies.” And he means it, too. A slight pang of guilt stabs his chest. Would it have been better if he said it with more enthusiasm?

“Don’t worry about it, I’m just messing around with you. Really, I’m grateful for—”

You freeze mid-sentence.

* * *

Artists are pretty observant, all things considered.

The two go hand-in-hand. That didn’t mean you were good at finding things or anything (there have been times when your missing pen was literally _on your desk_ yet you still managed to miss it), but every little detail never goes unnoticed if an artist focuses enough.

When Akaashi came into sight a couple minutes ago, something in your heart told you he didn’t come alone. You’re not sure why, but you trust it. After ending the conversation with a middle-aged couple about buying some pieces, you tapped him on the shoulder.

Talking to Akaashi when it wasn’t at some weird time in the morning always felt a bit more restrained than normal. As if conversation could only flow freely during calls. Again, you’re not sure why this happens either. It’s not _awkward_ nor _suffocating_ , but there’s just _something_ there that feels a little off.

 _The best artist_ , you said once, with a dream too bright and too vague.

Fame is relative. There's always someone out there better than you. There is no _best_ , because the notion simply doesn't exist.

"My apologies," Akaashi says. He's always been like that—apologizing even if there’s not much to apologize for. Really, it should be you who says it more.

“Don’t worry about it, I’m just messing around with you. Really, I’m grateful for—”

Then, you spot it.

A pair of golden eyes in the crowd, staring straight at you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8 chapters left... we are at the beginning of the end...
> 
> ok but seriously where did the time go wow. sorry for leaving y'all on another cliffhanger but this time it'lll be resolved quicker...ish.


	17. what comes next

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere down the line, falling in love with you just made sense to him, and it’s all Akaashi can think about nowadays.
> 
> The center of the universe isn't made for people like him.
> 
> //
> 
> You laugh, because the whole thing was stupid.
> 
> Bokuto grins, as if it’s not a problem to him.

The last time you graduated, it was a forgettable affair.

Not that this was really a problem; large and grand gestures of formalities have never been your thing.

Expecting Geidai to be the same, however, was oversight on your part. Despite the graduating class of only a couple hundred, their families and some more fitting with more than enough room to breathe, as soon as you stepped on foot on the Ueno campus thirty minutes early, everything clamored to be remembered. 

An art school graduation isn’t without its eccentricities. Many are dressed up in the usual art school weirdness that would’ve gotten a couple looks thrown their way if they were at any other place. With each year comes more and more glitz and glam, and your year certainly doesn’t disappoint. Sticking true to your style, you’re wearing something business-casual today underneath your black robes.

All graduations are just a glamorized photo event, especially with the cherry blossoms now in full bloom to top off the picturesque quality. Small flashes of light and the sounds of shutters go off in waves. A large banner hangs from one of the buildings— _Congratulations to the class of 2018!—_ the edges swaying gently in the breeze.

“Sacchi!”

You glance back, seeing Tachibana and Azumane approach, though already knowing who’s called your name. One’s wearing something fresh off the Harajuku fashion show, another with something that looked like it was thrown together at the very last second. It’s not necessary to say which was which.

“Yo.” You hold up a hand in greeting. “Congrats on graduating. We did it.”

“We sure did,” Tachibana says. She hands you the pamphlet for the guests. “But it doesn’t feel all that real. I still feel like I was a freshman just yesterday.”

“They say high school goes by pretty quickly, but it felt like college went by even faster,” muses Azumane, adjusting his cap that’s a touch too small on his head. “We’re working adults now.”

“Please, the less reminders I get about that, the happier I’ll be. I don’t even want to look at anything related to art for a good while right now,” you say, rolling around your wrists. Phantom traces of pain still linger in your hand.

“My job starts next week for me, so I don’t really have that luxury,” Azumane chuckles nervously. “But we’ll see how it goes.”

“We should get a commemorative photo taken!” Tachibana suggests, holding up a finger. A breeze carrying a shower of pink petals flies by. “Something for the three of us to keep.”

“You’re saying that because you want a nice picture of your outfit,” you retort.

“Something for the three of us to keep,” she repeats with a cold smile.

With a sigh—“Fine, fine. After the ceremony or something.”

The three of you wander over to the venue with a crowd, all waiting for it to open. Excited murmurs and hushed chatter spread around, all passing the time.

“So. Time for the important talk,” you begin.

Any sign of cheer disappears from Tachibana’s face in an instant. “From my sources, I’ve heard there’s been at least four new couples now. I was eyewitness to two—Rie and Harada, then Momocchi and Ueda,” she replies. “Rie called Harada a bunch of curses before actually getting to the point. It felt like watching a live tsundere act.”

The first one, you saw coming. While the two tried their best to pretend nothing was happening between them, everybody was placing bets behind their backs to when they’d officially announce their status. Somewhere on the campus, coins and bills were probably getting exchanged, making somebody’s wallet a good couple centimeters thicker.

The second one—

“Ueda?” You furrow your brows, trying to recall the woman. “The really short one in design or something?”

“The exact one.”

“Huh. I’m surprised.”

Tachibana gives a half-shrug. “They were a pretty quiet one. I only managed to see them since I happened to be near the two when it happened. But—” she holds up a finger. “the most important one has to be Ando’s proposal to Sakamoto.”

With a small school, news spread around quickly—Ando and Sakamoto were one of the famed campus couples (the other Tachibana and Minari, pre-breakup). Sakamoto reportedly asked out Ando right after his self-realization journey up to Wakkanai last year at the Tanabata festival, no less.

“How romantic,” you say with a mock sigh, placing your hand against your cheek. “Love really is in the air now. Maybe we’ll get invited to the wedding?”

“Wedding… is it really already time for those to start?” Tachibana’s face turns sour. “Good thing I’ll be in Milan by then.”

“But a wedding in Italy sounds pretty cool, don’t you think? With all those churches and stuff.”

“That’s on the assumption I get married in the first place.”

Azumane takes this as a cue to divert the conversation. “We’re pretty lucky that our semester goes on a week after most schools,” he says with a slight sniffle, possibly out of allergies. “The cherry blossoms right now really make the perfect scene for these sorts of things.”

“But graduation itself is also just another event for these kinds of things,” says Tachibana, her gaze looking somewhere far away. “The two go hand-in-hand, no matter what school you’re at.”

“I bet you got a lot of confessions from your kouhai. Like, _Tachibana-sama! Can I have a button?_ ” you lightly tease. 

She shakes her head. “It wasn’t really that much…”

“And I bet it’s still more than me and Azumane combined.” You turn a quizzical look to the man on your left. “Unless Azumane was secretly a charmer back in his days?”

He also shakes his head. “I think I’d probably throw up if I got a confession,” he says with a very serious look. “I’m the absolute worst at these kinds of things.”

“That so… I can kind of see it…” Your voice trails off, your eyes narrowing in thought. “But you should’ve still gotten at least a couple, right?”

Azumane places a hand behind his neck “I got one… But he went right off to Germany afterwards, so…” he takes a sudden interest in his shoes. “He’s the guy who was fishing for marlins in Italy.”

“What?” Your face morphs into one of shock. “Isn’t that kind of… What even happened afterwards then?”

“To be honest… I’m not really sure myself…” The crowd starts to move, and the three of you take a couple steps forward. “But I think I’m going to try and save up money for a trip around the world too. Maybe join him in Egypt or something.”

“What’s up with everybody taking a world-wide trip?” you mutter with a sigh, still loud enough to be heard. “I bet you 500 yen Sakamoto’s gonna take Ando up to the North Pole or something for their honeymoon.”

“Oh, how’d you know?” Tachibana asks.

“You serious?”

The crowd shuffles forward some more. “You still haven’t answered yet, Sacchi,” Tachibana notes. “How many confessions did you get?”

“Don’t even go there. Absolutely nothing,” you reply, immediately cutting that train off. “You haven’t answered either.”

Tachibana looks askance. “Er… well, I guess I _did_ have all my buttons gone… but I’ve forgotten most of them… ”

“See, Azumane.” You nudge the man at your side. “What’d I say? We aren’t suitable to be in the presence of Miss Popular-sama over here.”

“It’s not really that big of a deal!” she cries out, shaking her hands. “I’m pretty sure half of them asked just to get a button. That’s all there was to it. It’s not like I could really deal with romance or whatever at that time anyways.”

“Wow, harsh. I’m sure there’s a couple that poured their heart and soul into it.”

Tachibana takes off her large hat that’s so big you thought a couple of doves would fly out (none do). “Of course there are. I still remember the names of those. But—” she plays around with the flowers embroidered on the hat. “Sometimes confessions are just to chase after a face.”

On that note, the three of you enter the venue.

* * *

Actually, there was one for you as well.

_As you’re aimlessly strolling down the hallways of your high school, not going anywhere in particular, somebody calls out your name behind you._

_“Sasaki-senpai! Can I have one of your buttons?”_

_You turn around, seeing an underclassman trembling in a bowed position. Without much reason to deny, your hands undo the button from your blazer. The couple from your sleeve are already gone, one to an underclassman—Sugita Ayako—that had been a big fan of your work, the other to a member of the Nihonga Studies club—Takenori Natsuki—you got roped into being president for this year._

_A tiny embellishment that stood for so much. You roll the black fastening in your fingers curiously before handing it over. You’re not sure just what exactly drove people to fight over these buttons (there had been a couple already with the more attractive upperclassmen), but you comply nonetheless, mostly out of courtesy._

_“Um, senpai! Congratulations on getting into Geidai once again!” Your kouhai once again bows stiffly after receiving your button, using a voice a couple decibels louder than you like. “They’re very lucky to have you!”_

_“Thanks,” you reply, unsure of what else to say, slightly overwhelmed by this gesture. “I appreciate it.”_

_He rises from his position and a grin splits out onto his face. “I’m going to work hard to get there too! Ah, wait—” he panics, shock settling onto his thin and gaunt features. “Um, not because of you—well, wait, it kind of is, um…” The tips of his ears turn slightly red._

_“It’s a prestigious school,” you say gently, mostly understanding what he was trying to get at. “I wish you good luck.”_

_He beams. “Thanks! I won’t let you down!”_

“I wonder if he ever got in…”

“What?” 

You blink. You’re back at your alma mater with a Tachibana, Azumane, and now a Sugawara also at your side, who managed to squeeze some time to attend your graduation before his train leaves.

“Don’t mind me. Just thinking about some stuff from the past,” you reply with a brush of your hand. The four of you are walking down the studios and lecture halls of the school, as there’s still some things to take home. The stark emptiness of the rooms, save for a couple of graduates milling around in them, are a jarring sight to see.

Whether your kouhai got in or not, those were all just futile musings. You’ve even forgotten his name now. Maybe if you saw him again you’d remember.

“Sasaki-senpai!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, turning around.

_Maybe if you saw him again you’d remember._

“Minato-kun.” You raise a hand in greeting, facing your underclassman, as the name clicks in your mind. “It’s good to see you again.”

Minato Arata. In the years that passed since that meeting in the school hallway of your last year, he shot up a couple heads taller and filled out the frame of his lanky body. No longer did his skin have a sickly tone to it too—it glowed with a healthy complexion you didn’t think was possible. 

“I’m glad I could catch up with you! Congratulations on graduating!” he says. Even his voice lost the crackling effects that came with puberty.

“I didn’t think you’d come out all the way to Tokyo,” you admit, suddenly extremely conscious of how he has to tilt his head down to look at you.

“I spent a year or so at my grandmother’s in Fukushima to get better,” he replies. “And well—I’m here now. Because of you.” His dark eyes widen immediately at this statement. “Ah, well, also because of myself, I guess, but…” his voice trails off, the tips of his ears turning a shade of vibrant red.

You stifle an amused smile at this small part of him still unchanged. “You’ve done well getting here. I’m glad to see somebody from my hometown’s made it.”

“Thank you!” He bows. It’s much more graceful this time around. “You’ve done a lot for me over the years, so I just wanted to say my thanks.”

“Thanks?” you echo. “I don’t think I’ve done much though.”

Minato shakes his head. “No, the show you held during your third year along with your artist talk was very enlightening to me. I learned a lot about your process which I apply to my own works.” 

Along with the midyear shows, the university also held themed-shows scattered throughout the year with a select few artists they handpicked. It was mostly a chance for the school to proudly show off the cream-of-the-crop artists of the year to the world, polishing up for their solo gallery debuts. 

“Oh, you came to that? You should’ve said hi or something.”

“Sorry about that… I had something to do afterwards, so I couldn’t really stay for long,” he says, slightly embarrassed. “Oh, also, your feature in one of the magazine editorials I like to read was something I really enjoyed!”

That was a paid feature which, with you struggling with rent at the time, was all too happy to accept. You don’t even remember what you said at the time for the interview. Still, you’re not one to crush the hopes and dreams of somebody still in their studies. “It makes me happy to hear that. I’ll be looking forward to the paintings you make in your future,” you reply.

“I’m actually in sculpture,” he corrects you with a small laugh. “I took lessons at a pottery studio when I was at Fukushima, found out I was pretty good at it, and I’m now continuing here.”

_Of course he is._

“A sculptor, huh… well, I wasn’t really expecting that...” Your gaze falls to the ground in embarrassment. “But—” you turn back to look at him after a couple seconds, trying to pull your face together with a warm look.

“I’m glad to see you’re doing well. Don’t be afraid to reach out in the future, alright?” You muster a genuine smile. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

“You got it!” he replies with ease. A couple people—his friends, you surmise–in the distance call out his name and he gives them a quick wave.

“Well, I’m not going to keep you here for longer than you need to be,” you say, dropping your hand to your side. “Go out and have some fun with your friends. Leave an old person like me be.”

“Goodbye then, Sasaki-senpai. It was nice seeing you again.” Minato flashes you a grin and walks away to join his friends, blending right in with the group. Only smiles and cheers are donned on their faces. You turn back around, holding up your hand in farewell. Whether he sees the gesture or not is something you’re not particularly worried over.

“What was that about no confessions again?” Tachibana jokes, poking your shoulder. You swat it away lightly.

“You be quiet.”

The four of you exit the building at the back, greeted by the spring air, now a couple degrees hotter. You take off your robes and fold them into your arms. Azumane takes off his cap, brushing off the beads of sweat on his forehead. There’s fewer graduates milling around here, providing a nice bit of quiet in the noisy atmosphere.

“I think I’ll miss this place,” Tachibana says quietly, stopping in front of a tree, the pink petals falling on top of her head softly like snow. “There’s a lot of memories here.”

You turn your gaze to the old brick building shaded by some trees, the shadows falling on the structure. Where did the time go? You weren’t one of the students absolutely dedicated to its school and the ideals it upheld, but as you told Akaashi a couple nights ago, you didn’t regret the decision. To the school itself, you couldn’t care less about it. To the people, there’s a spark of something like appreciation in your chest.

You stretch your arms towards the sky, clasping your hands together. “Mostly stressful ones,” you reply, your arms falling back down. “Not too sure about the good ones.”

“There’s still a couple in there,” says Azumane with a fond look, using a hand to shield the sun from his face. “Probably.”

“Probably?” Your lips purse in thought. “Doesn’t sound that convincing. Well, whatever. Now it’s time to focus on the whole _what comes next_ thing, isn’t it?”

“What’s next is coming to me right after this,” Sugawara notes with a sigh. There’s a small petal on his shoulder that he brushes off with a flick of his hand. “A speeding bullet train right back to Miyagi.”

“But before you know it, you’ll be back home,” Azumane points out. “It’s like, _zip_ , and you’re there.”

“ _Zip_ , huh.” A small hum escapes Sugawara’s mouth. “In the end, your family never showed up, huh?”

Azumane shakes his head. “They’re caring for my grandfather right now. He got sick over the winter, and still hasn’t fully recovered. I should probably head back there soon, but…” he falters, falling silent for a while, before a glimmer of shock passes over his face. He puts a hand behind his neck with a slight chuckle. “Ah, sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about things like this right now.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tachibana says with a wave of her hand. “Wishing the best for your family. Besides—” there’s a note of fatigue in her tone. “We’re all in the same boat here.”

“At least Azumane has Sugawara though.” You crack a smile despite the conversation at hand. “The two of us have absolutely nobody. How sad.”

Behind you, Sugawara scoffs. “I’m here for you too! What happened to Bokuto-senshu? Or Akaashi-kun?”

“Oh!” Tachibana’s face lights up. “I heard about your grand exit from the other day looking around for somebody! What happened?”

“That really wasn’t that big of a deal…” you stammer out, trying to divulge from the topic.

“That so?” Sugawara interjects. “You looked pretty frantic when I saw you run past me.”

News travelled fast, but there should be a limit somewhere, right? “Please forget anything you saw about me last night,” you say, hoping your voice doesn’t betray your composed look.

“Really?” His tone takes on a certain inflection you don’t think you like. “I think that’s first time I’ve seen you with _that_ kind of expression on your—”

“Say anymore and I’ll make sure your last expression is one of eternal pain.”

“Wow, scary.” He sounds the least bit threatened. “What if I said I was making it all up?”

“The Arakawa or the Edo River, pick which’ll be your final resting place.”

“How benevolent, I get to pick.”

“The ocean then, I’m sure the fish will enjoy the meal!”

“Now, now!” Tachibana cuts in, waving her hands around in an attempt to stop the situation from escalating further. “Let’s calm down a bit now, yeah? The photographer’s still here! Let’s get our photo taken! You promised, after all.”

“Since when was that a promise?”

* * *

Here’s what happened that night:

 _It’s him,_ is the only thought on your mind.

Bokuto immediately breaks the gaze and melts into the crowd.

There’s only one thing you can do.

“Sorry, do you mind if I step out for a second?” In a flash, you run past Akaashi, trying to chase Bokuto down. Jostling past throngs of people, bumping into too many shoulders to count and muttering single-worded apologies to them, you desperately search for the head of streaked hair in the crowd. It’s at the end of the hallway, bobbing a bit higher than the rest.

But no matter how much you try to push forward, there’s a barrier between you and him, as if the universe was trying to push you away. Never any further, but never any closer. When you’re at the end of the hallway, you look around frantically, searching the faces that pass by, but there’s no trace of him in sight. 

_How hard is it to find somebody that damn tall?_ you think, clenching your fists.

Were you just chasing after a mirage?

No—you’re absolutely sure that was him. Who else could it be?

This whole thing was stupid. 

Really stupid.

Who chases after somebody you told them to leave you alone?

But here you are, in the middle of your university museum during a graduation show, doing exactly that. Your hand reaches for your phone in your pocket, but you stop before turning it on. There’s some things you should probably say in person—this being one of them. There’s a time and place for everything and the proper way to do things.

The night of your graduation show is neither the right time or place. You’re not even sure what constitutes the proper way of solving something like this. A text, however, is not one of them. But the universe has never been one to signal _hey, you should do this now._ It opens doors. You just walk through them, desperately hoping you picked the right one.

(besides—since when has anything in your life ever been _proper_?)

Your shoulders droop as you look to the ceiling. Light fixtures hang just out of reach. People are chatting in murmured tones around you, but all you can hear is the blood pounding in your ears. 

When did life get so complicated?

 _It’s your fault_ , a voice somewhere sings in jest.

Among a crowd perpetually in quiet motion flowing by like a river, you stand still.

Just what exactly are you doing?

* * *

It’s weird.

How everything stays the same. How everything stays the same, after he realizes he’s in love with you. How everything _stays the same_ , and he knows this well, but at the same time, nothing does. Somewhere down the line, falling in love with you just made sense to him, and it’s all Akaashi can think about nowadays.

How everything stays the same, when you call him at random intervals in the morning.

How everything _stays the same_ , and while he should be glad it does, instead it sticks as a thorn to his side.

You’re looking somewhere far away in your frozen state, every muscle in your body on alert. “Sorry, do you mind if I step out for a second?” you ask, but you don’t wait for an answer as you come to life, streaking past him. A rocket, sent out to explore the unknowns of the galaxy.

(a rocket, sent out and never to return.)

He watches you run, chasing after Bokuto like it’s the only thing you can do, and disappear into the crowd. His fists clench slightly (frustration), but release as soon as it comes (resignment).

Somewhere down the line, falling in love with you just made sense to him. That winter’s day at the cafe felt so long ago; the evening glow on your face making his heart stutter and fail in stupid ways he hopes you couldn’t hear. Sometimes, it still comes back to him at random moments throughout his day and it’s all he does to steel his face into neutrality to keep himself in check.

Now that he’s thinking about it—falling in love with you didn’t start _there_ , that day in the cafe. Is there a definite start time to things like love? To anything? Volleyball games start at the whistle. But there’s months, years of preparation that lead up to it. Books start at the first title, but there’s countless drafts that predate the one published. 

So if he’s being honest, it probably started some time long ago, but he still didn’t have the words to realize it back then. When the two of you were still kids, on the borderline of becoming teenagers, the spark of the idea—of falling in love with you—was already there. And it builds and builds with the little chunks of time the two of you spent together.

He’s convinced himself you didn’t need to know. Convinced himself he’s fine with whatever lines the two of you existed in because it’s easy like this. He’s convinced himself to not say the words out loud, despite how easy it is to form on his tongue, because he doesn’t want to deal with the aftereffects. Doesn’t want to lose it all.

_Isn’t it better like this?_

“I don’t mind,” he says quietly, minutes too late, to the empty space you once occupied. His gaze follows your figure until it's out of sight, and then falls on a painting. It’s nothing special. A red fish swimming amongst leaves, with a black spot near its eye. You mentioned once you went to the aquarium with Bokuto. Was this painting from then?

(if he was there _,_ would _this_ situation be any different?)

He thinks he’s fine with not knowing what happened between the two of you. Not his place to intrude. Akaashi’s never one to chase or make himself a fool; he’s not one to draw attention to himself like that. The center of the universe isn’t made for people like him. Akaashi takes what he can get.

And he’s fine with that.

Akaashi observes your gallery once again. He doesn’t know where a lot of scenes came from (and with some, he quite frankly can’t tell what they’re supposed to be), but it draws him in all the same. There’s one with the seat of a swing at sunset with a pair of short legs sitting in it—or at least, that’s what he thinks it is. Thin, vertical gray lines mimicking chains line the sides. The canvas hangs near one of the low corners and he has to stoop down a bit to see it.

But when do you become sick of the bare minimum? 

When do you start wanting more than just that?

Can somebody like him, who exists on the outskirts of some far-off galaxy, even _wish_ for more?

 _This is a show about my life, but also about life in general_ , you wrote in your artist statement. _Ultimately, we are still in control of what it becomes, even if it seems so disjointed._

His phone _dings_ with a message from Udai— _when you see this, can you please call me? i kind of need help with something..._

Akaashi isn’t sure how long a second is in your mind. But it’s been over ten minutes now, and while Akaashi’s one to be patient, Udai isn’t. The deadline for the next drafts is tomorrow, and with how the story’s going right now, there’s no time to waste.

He takes one last glance at your gallery and starts walking out.

It’s weird.

How everything stays the same.

And in a matter of mere seconds, nothing does.

* * *

All things considered, Bokuto didn’t mean to see you. When Akaashi went towards your exhibit, he stayed back, looking at the other art on display.

Except—Bokuto’s never one to ignore things easily. As he’s trying to focus on the paintings in front of him, he can’t help but sneak glances back to yours. It’s not like the paintings are bad. There’s a sense of magic and abstract imbued in the pastel colors of the figures, each looking like a dreamscape, free from the physics of Earth. He’s never seen anything like this, not in the museums you’ve taken him to. 

Which drives him all the more to know what your show’s like.

He should go. Take the first step. But he promised himself to be _patient_. What if you didn’t want to see him here? Or you already have a plan of action as to how you’d approach him again?

And that’s him being optimistic.

“You’re… Sacchi’s—er, Sasaki’s neighbor, aren’t you?” a curious voice behind him inquires. Bokuto turns around, seeing a woman of short stature wearing what he can best describe as _unique_. A black hat with colorful flowers sits atop her head of shoulder-length gray hair (dyed, probably). Her dress, matching her hair color, is plain, but there’s small details—a dark blue ruffle, the glints of golden pins—that screams _eclectic_. 

“How did you know?” he asks, mouth gaping open, unable to completely hide the tone of wonder in his voice.

She shrugs. Her beaded earrings catch a glint of light. “Just a hunch. I’m a friend of hers.” The woman bows slightly with a practiced grace. “Tachibana Ayumi. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Bokuto Koutarou,” he replies, bowing back. “It’s nice to meet you. Your art is really amazing! Sorry, I don’t really have the words to describe them...” he chuckles nervously. Honesty always leaves a good first impression.

“I appreciate it, and don’t worry about it. Hearing people say they like this is good enough for me. But—” Tachibana’s gray irises sharpen. “You’re here for somebody else, aren’t you?”

And Bokuto’s again about to ask just exactly how this woman knows, but he decides the question is fruitless.

“Yeah, I’m here for Sasaki, actually. Um, but it’s kind of… how do I put it...” he gestures vaguely, looking for the word.

What was he supposed to say? Complicated? You simply didn’t want to see him. Hard? You’re right over there. He used the words _tough spot_ with Akaashi, but he’s not sure just how much this woman knows.

Tachibana picks up the cue, not pushing for more. “You know, Sacchi doesn’t tell me a lot of things about what’s going on in her private life and all,” she begins, walking near the opening of her exhibit. He trails right behind. A couple people walk up to her with smiles and awed voices, and she greets them with a bright smile. 

“Some days, it’s like talking to a wall. You want to know how stubborn somebody can be? Just talk to her for 10 minutes, 5 on a bad day, and you’ll understand.”

He laughs.

“She doesn’t admit she’s right, because she always thinks something can be better. And she absolutely hates admitting when she’s wrong.” She makes a sour face at this. “It’s really annoying!”

Bokuto stays silent this time.

“But still,” Tachibana continues, waving to somebody in the distance. “She’s a good friend. She’s been there for me through the ups and downs. And she thinks she’s just another person in the world, but look over there—” Tachibana motions to your exhibit with her chin and Bokuto’s gaze follows. There’s a sizable crowd of people present, frozen in time with their languid movements, observing your works.

“130 pieces. Around two months’ time. She’s trying her hardest to live as herself. Some critics can look at and say they’re only 15 centimeters on each side, so that’s nothing. They’re tiny,” she says. The pleasant mask on her face drops for a millisecond. “And those critics can shove it up their asses.”

“That sounds pretty amazing,” he says with a hushed tone. Tachibana nods her head in wordless affirmation.

“Sure is. Not many people can pull off something like that. But, that’s something for another day.” Tachibana exhales, stretching her arms forward. “I guess what I’m trying to say here, is that Sacchi’s never been the type to prioritize herself first. That applies to a lot of people at this school, but for her, it’s even more. I’ve known her for four years. It hasn’t changed much since the beginning.” The woman’s eyes unfocus, a hint of nostalgia in her smile. It’s a bit similar to your look on the balcony that morning.

“It’s like the only thing on her mind is art. But it’s not out of a love for it. It’s always been a burden for her, I think. Trying to live up to what she thinks everybody expects of her. But recently, she looks a lot less like there’s a big weight on her shoulders.” She furrows her brows slightly. 

“Ah, but it’s not like it’s gone. I don’t think something like that can be gone so easily. It’s more like she’s finally starting to make art because she wants to.” With pursed lips, Tachibana chooses her next words carefully, with deliberation. “She looks… _happy_ for once.”

She turns to finally look at Bokuto, and there’s _something_ about her stare that’s reading Bokuto’s exact thoughts, making his breath catch in his throat.

“I’m not sure if it’s because of you, or whether her brain finally started realizing something,” she says. “Even then, I have a feeling you have something to do with it. And I’m not going to ask what happened between the two of you, that’s not my place to know.

“But if I’m not wrong about her, she’s probably stressing over the situation just as much as you are and doesn’t know what to do. So if you hold just anything that cares for somebody like her, then go to her,” she concludes, with a knowing look on her features. “Artists are kind of high maintenance like that. Sorry on her behalf. And for taking up so much of your time tonight.”

He shakes his head. “No, you’ve been really helpful,” he manages out, though he’s not sure just _what_ he’s gotten from this one-sided conversation. “Thank you, Tachibana-sensei!”

“Just the -san is fine. Using -sensei makes me sound old in ways I don’t like.”

“Ah, my bad! Thank you, Tachibana-san!”

"No problem." The woman turns around, starting to walk back to her exhibit. “We should probably pretend this conversation never happens, in case Sacchi gets on my tail."

"That's a good idea!"

He doesn’t follow her back this time.

All things considered, Bokuto didn’t mean to see you.

But he does, anyways.

Because if there’s even a speck of truth in that woman’s words, he’ll grasp onto it like the sole lifeline tossed out in the open ocean. Pushing past his previous thoughts on whether you _needed_ him or not, shoving aside his doubts on whether you actually _wanted_ him in your life, the fact of the matter is that he _misses you_.

A lot. Maybe even a smidge more than he’d like to admit.

(and he hears Kuroo’s maniacal laugh somewhere in the background, but he ignores it.)

And when Bokuto finally takes the tentative steps forward, lingering near the walls of your gallery, he sees you talking with Akaashi. There’s that same small smile on his face, one that most people aren’t aware they have, where the corners of their eyes and lips are turned up almost imperceptibly so. Just like at the time when he saw the two of you at the grocery store.

He wants to wait a bit before approaching you. Doesn’t want to interrupt anything between the two of you. His gaze travels to the paintings on the walls, except again, he can’t focus. They shift to you every now and then unconsciously, and it’s all he does to pry himself back.

But one time, Bokuto’s eyes meet yours squarely.

Something in his chest skips a beat.

 _That_ wasn’t supposed to happen.

Rationally speaking, he should stay.

But Bokuto is anything _but_ , so his first instinct: run.

And he follows it, not knowing what else to do.

* * *

It’s weird.

How nothing changed. How nothing changed, when you first texted him that day. The two of you still carried on with your lives as normal—you knew this would happen too. How _nothing changed_ but at the same time, _everything did_ with that one message ( _i’m busy. please don’t bother me.)_

How nothing changed. You’re still aware of his presence with each passing day. 

How _nothing changed_ , and it’s what scares you the most.

You exit the museum after asking around some of your classmates whether they saw him— _oh, I remember! Like Azumane’s height, right?_ —and sure enough, some ways away from the entrance, you spot the familiar head of black-and-white hair. It’s dark out, but the lanterns hanging at the food stalls provide enough light. The warm air is a stark departure from the chill of the museum, but you don’t pay much attention to it.

“Bokuto!” you call out, picking up your pace. He’s 10 meters away. When he doesn’t respond—

“Oi, Bo!”

He turns around. 10 becomes 5 becomes 1 as you catch up to him. When you finally stop, you’re gasping for air.

“Um—” you begin through long draws of breath, but what are you supposed to say in these situations?

Who finds themselves in something like this in the first place?

“Er, Nice show you had back there,” Bokuto says in your silence, scratching his head. "It looked pretty cool back there! I'd buy them all if I had that money! I might have to take out a couple loans though..."

“Do you even know how to take out a loan?” The words flow from your mouth before you even have the time to process them. “Who was the one asking help with taxes the other day?”

“It’ll be alright!” he argues, putting his hands on his hips. “Things’ll work out somehow in the end! It’s as simple as marching down to a bank and asking for one, isn’t it?”

And then you laugh.

You laugh, doubling over and clutching your stomach. Tears are forming from the corners of your eyes, but you don’t wipe them away. A good number of people are looking at you with weird expressions plastered all over their faces, but you couldn’t care less.

“Who the hell just says something _like that?_ ”

You laugh. At yourself.

“Like, really? That’s the first thing you say to me? After all of _this_?”

Because nothing’s changed.

“What is even going on in that brain of yours?”

At just how quickly _pretense_ shatters, revealing everything underneath.

“You’re really simpleminded, aren’t you?”

You laugh, because the whole thing’s stupid.

Bokuto grins, like it’s not a problem for him.

“I know!”

Laughter subsides into giggles as you regain a shred of some composure. His face, underneath the faint glow of lanterns, holds a certain softness to it you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. A knot in your chest tightens. It’s woven together by strands of complicated emotions and feelings you can’t quite put the right names to.

“Um… sorry,” you manage out with an apologetic tone, albeit sheepishly. And you want to laugh again at how shitty that apology sounded, but you stifle it with a bite of your lip with the little energy you have left.

“For what?” he asks. _How can he not be aware_? you wonder distantly. Your eyes wander to the rows of stalls scattered in front of the museum, where the once-crowded throes of people are all but gone, the only remnants a couple people still flitting around, deciding what to buy. Some stalls are already starting to pack up for the night, to return in half a year’s time.

Finding the proper words, the _right_ words, they’re hard to do. Even now, standing right in front of Bokuto, you’re still not sure what to say. You rack your brain for the best ones to use, surfacing into the depths of your mind in search for it, but only coming up with crumbs. 

“For everything,” you decide to say, and you don’t think it’s enough to encompass _anything_ at all.

“It’s fine,” he answers all too easily, an attempt to put the whole mess behind the two of you. Bokuto studies you in a couple seconds that stretch out to eternities, a mixture of conflict and curiosity in his expression. He’s searching for something; you’re not sure what.

“You must’ve been really busy, huh,” He chuckles, but it sounds a touch too soft for it to be just a joke. “I didn’t even get a text back.”

And there’s something so vulnerable, so fragile swirling underneath the usual bluster and confidence of his tone that makes your breath catch in your throat.

You wish you knew how to answer.

“Something like that,” is all you can mumble out, the words (they’re not the right ones, not at all) falling clumsily from your lips. “Sorry, again. That… wasn’t really fair to you at all.”

If you were in Bokuto’s shoes, you think you’d have every right to be upset at whatever half-assed apology you’re spewing out. More words start creep from the tip of your tongue, and you open your mouth again—

“Like I said, it’s fine. Really.” He cuts off anything you were about to say, probably for the better too. “I didn’t mind.”

“Really?” you echo tentatively.

“Really,” he repeats, assuring you with a confident smile.

You’re not sure if he’s telling the truth or not, but you decide not to push for more. He probably wants to move on from the whole thing. 

A poignant moment of silence settles between the two of you before he speaks up again.

“But I’d really like it if you could still come to the finals?” he asks, caution thrown in his voice.

You smile.

“Only if you come and see my show first.” You jerk your thumb towards the museum entrance. “I hardly believe you got a chance to see the whole thing.”

He gives you a thumbs-up. “Of course!”

It’s weird. How nothing changes. 10 becomes 5 becomes 1 becomes 0 as the two of you start walking back to the museum, shoulders just centimeters away from brushing. The two of you don’t talk about _it_ anymore, the elephant in the room deemed to be sufficiently addressed. Casting a quick glance towards Bokuto’s face, you see the same old carefree expression, one that you’ve grown used to seeing over these past couple months.

Truthfully, you aren’t sure how you fit into Bokuto’s life or how he fits into yours. _Friends_ nowadays sounds too casual, too simple. Like _everything_ , it doesn’t encompass _anything_. Maybe _close friends_ , but the word itself—friends—you’re not sure if that can be used to describe whatever _this_ was. 

Besides—who thinks about the idea of what _friendship_ is for this long?

Who tells _friends_ in the first place to leave them alone for an undetermined amount of time? Isn’t the idea of friendship one that can exist in periods of solitude? They come and go in the grand puzzle of the universe, some staying longer for others, others switched out for new ones. The cycle rinses and repeats.

But are people even puzzle pieces to fit neatly into another’s life?

Isn’t what the two of you _are_ right now, in the present, fine enough?

Is that how any of this worked?

You shake your head, trying to silence that thought. The walk back to the museum is _definitely_ not the time to be pondering where you stand with Bokuto.

“If you’re calling me Bo now,” he says, shattering the silence, and you wonder how he decided that so quickly. “Can I call you Saki? Sasaki is cool and all, but Saki is nice and short!”

You pause for a beat, but your answer is already in your mind.

“Yeah. Sure, I guess.”

Some moments later—“Thanks for the souvenirs, by the way. The wagashi was really good.”

“No problem! That’s what I’m here for!” he replies with a radiant beam, telling you _everything’s alright._ The knot at the center of your chest tightens in a way you can’t explain. You look to the dark sky above, away from his face, in fear that the knot will tighten even more.

“You don’t have to—I don’t know, _exist_ , just through giving me stuff, you know.” Your tongue’s heavy at the next admission. “There’s more to you than just that.”

He hums pensively in response. You’re not sure if you’re lucky or meeting your demise that he doesn’t ask for you to elaborate.

It’s weird.

How nothing changed.

And in a matter of mere seconds, everything does.

* * *

After the commemorative photo, Sugawara leaves (for real, this time around) along with Azumane to the train station. 

“Take care,” you say, a bittersweet smile on your lips. “Come and visit once in a while.”

The idea of saying _goodbye_ to Sugawara hadn’t really crossed your mind nor even registered during the show, with the flurry of events going on. Even now, you’re still not sure if it’s settled.

“Of course. You’ll see me before you even have the chance to miss me,” he replies with a wink. His gray hair flutters lightly in the breeze.

You snort. “Didn’t know teachers lived that easy of a lifestyle, Sugawara. Or should I call you Sugawara-sensei now?”

“If you’re calling me that, I’m gonna call you Sasaki-sensei.”

You roll your eyes. “Let’s not go there.”

A beat later: “But hey—Thanks. For everything.”

(why does the word _everything_ always feel like it’s not enough?)

He smiles, in that angelic way of his. “You too. Don’t stay up too late. Make sure to eat some proper food too. Living off of cup ramen isn’t the healthiest way to go”

“You’re really upholding that motherly role until the end, aren’t you?” you scoff, though it’s more out of exasperation than anything else. “I really hate that about you.”

Sugawara chuckles. “Sorry. It's a habit at this point,” he replies, a slight dusting of pink on his pale cheeks appearing.

“No, it’s fine,” you say, placing a hand on his shoulder. “That’s just who you are. You as well, don’t go overworking yourself. Kids are a rough bunch to handle.” Your hand drops.

“With what I’ve dealt with over these past few years, I think I’ll be fine.” A mischievous glint sparkles in his eyes.

“Hurry and go now,” you grumble, giving him a light push. “Don’t miss your train and all.” 

“You’re probably right about that. Let’s go then,” he says, motioning to Azumane. The two of them start walking down the quiet street lined by the cherry blossom trees.

“Get everything sorted out with your loverboy!” he calls out some distance away with one final glance back to you.

“Don’t call him that!” you retort back. “Same goes for you!” 

Saying _goodbye_ hadn’t really crossed your mind. You’re not sure if Sugawara would come back to Tokyo in the future or if you’d ever see him again. Tokyo to Miyagi is more than enough distance to break a friendship. 

“See you later,” you say quietly.

Things in life are transient. Fleeting. The cherry petals sprinkling down will disintegrate in just mere weeks. Everything comes and goes.

Still, you clutch onto one of the petals in hopes that just _maybe_ , this one can last.

Sugawara turns back around with a hand raised, in lieu of words. You watch the two figures walk further away until they turn a corner and disappear from your sight without a trace.

“When are you going to Milan?” you ask Tachibana as the two of you find a tree to get some shade. The shadows from the branches dance lazily onto the grass.

“Sometime during the summer, most likely. I want to get there as early as I can.” She bounces on the balls of her feet. “ _Chi dorme non piglia pesci._ ”

“Chi what now?” you groan. “Our English skills are already questionable enough, don’t bring Italian into the conversation.”

“I was just getting there! It just means ‘you snooze, you lose’,” Tachibana explains with a huff.

“Doesn’t that exist in every language?”

“You didn’t have to say that!”

You roll your eyes, but the corners of your lips are turned up. Before you respond, however—

“Saki!”

You turn towards the direction where the latest iteration of your name is called out today. Your mouth drops at the man who’s approaching you.

“Bo,” you greet him. “Um, what’s with—” you gesture up and down. “Everything?”

He’s wearing a dark grey suit, black dress shirt with a navy blue tie to match. The blazer’s unbuttoned, left to flap in the wind behind him. It’s not even his graduation, but it’s much more formal than what you’re wearing. In his hand is an explosion of colorful flowers with carnations and orchids of all sorts wrapped in a white plastic, tied neatly with a red ribbon.

“Your graduation, duh,” he answers with a grin.

He looks _good_.

Really good.

Not at all what you were expecting.

“Yeah, but—” your gestures turn vague and confused. “Was all of that necessary? In the first place, aren’t you hot in that?”

“Oh, you think so too? I look pretty dashing right now, don’t I?” Bokuto replies teasingly, much to your chagrin. “But, these are the only formal set of clothes I have,” he continues, straightening his tie. “They’re for my award ceremonies and all the other boring stuff.”

“Who was the one who said they were alone again?” Tachibana pokes your shoulder. “I’ll leave you two be then.”

“Oi, Tachibana—” you try to stop her, but she’s quicker and slips through your grasp, disappearing amongst a group of graduates. You let out a long sigh of frustration, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Bokuto looks curiously at the woman, his eyes lingering on her hat. “Oh!” He turns his attention back to you. “These are for you, by the way. The florist said these were best suited for graduation! He’s somebody I knew back in high school, so I trust him!!”

He holds out the bouquet and you take it, fingers brushing against his for just a brief second. It’s a bit too large to carry it comfortably. 

“Thanks. They’re really pretty.” You’re unsure of what else to comment. The light fragrance of the flowers wafts to your nose, just enough to be noticed. “Though I don’t even know where I can put them back at my place.”

“Ah, that so...” falters Bokuto, the air of easy confidence around him dropping for just a split second. His hair comically follows suit. “I should’ve thought about that…”

“Don’t worry about it,” you hurriedly respond, shaking your free hand. “I can get a vase or something, no big deal. Really.”

He perks up again immediately. “Really?” 

You nod, looking back to the flowers. There’s something wedged between a couple carnations. Your fingers reach inside to take it out, revealing a small white envelope. _For Sasaki_ , is printed on it in sloppy handwriting you’re all too familiar with.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a ticket for the finals,” Bokuto explains, taking a step closer to you. “My friend—the one with the office job—helped me get one, since I’m not sure how quickly these sell out. I made sure that it’s a pretty good seat too!”

Something like gratitude swells in your chest but quickly recedes as reluctance. “You didn’t have to do all of this,” you sputter out. “I was gonna get one myself. Really.”

He shrugs. “I wanted to do this for you. Your show was really cool… I don’t really know how to describe it—” Bokuto scratches his head in thought. “I liked seeing all the places we went to together there and how you saw them. It kind of gave me a really shocking feeling, like _swoosh_ and then _bam_ or something.”

“Didn’t realize I was playing volleyball.”

“You know what I mean!” He pouts exaggeratedly. “I’m not good with words and that sort of stuff! I leave that to Akaashi!”

The corners of your eyes crinkle up at this. “Words just aren't the best way for people like us.” You look back at the envelope in your hand, flipping it over it in inspection. Not to your surprise, there’s a volleyball sticker sealing it. “But. I have the feeling I’m not really getting this for free."

“That’s up to you,” he says, dancing around the question— _hey, wanna hang out?_ —as he places his hands into his blazer pockets in an act to look inconspicuous. “I’m not saying you aren’t, but I’m also not saying you are.”

“Which is then?” You roll your eyes. “Well, whatever. Don’t you have practice soon?”

As if on cue, his phone alarm rings. “Ah, I do,” he says, silencing it with a look of disappointment. His hair once again droops down. “And I thought I’d have some more time today…”

“Balcony’s always an option,” you reply with a shrug. “Later tonight. Like always.”

A beat later—”Dinner too, if you’re in the mood for some ramen.”

Nothing’s changed, but at the same time, everything has. The question doesn’t need to be asked, because the answer’s already a yes.

He beams. It’s even warmer than the sun.

“I’ll hold you to that then!” With large and confident steps he starts walking away from you, still facing your way, holding up his hand in farewell. You manage to stifle a laugh when he bumps into somebody and shouts out his apology. He turns the corner and finally faces forward, not before giving you one final wave (which you return out of amusement).

Once he’s gone, the campus feels quieter than normal despite the throes of people still scattered around. Scanning around the courtyard, Tachibana’s large hat is nowhere to be found. You’re not in the mood to hunt her down anymore.

Tilting your head up, you look at the stretch of blue sky above. A couple puffy clouds float by. 

“This is really stupid,” you whisper out.

But there’s a smile on your face you can’t quite hide.

* * *

Later at practice, Bokuto has a weird spring to his steps and a lightness in his motions that Atsumu can’t help but point out during a short break—

“Did something good happen today?” the setter asks, while he takes sips from their water. “You’re awfully energetic.”

“No, nothing in particular,” Bokuto replies, despite the idiotic grin on his face that he can’t quite conceal.

Atsumu narrows his eyes. “You have the same look Osamu has when he finds out there’s still leftovers in the fridge,” he observes casually. “Like you’re really glad to have found something again.”

He shrugs in response. “You think? I guess that’s true… I’m pretty glad right now!”

Before Atsumu gets a chance to reply—

“Break’s over!” somebody calls out. Bokuto jogs out to the serving position on the court for the second set of their practice match. Somebody tosses him the ball. He bounces it once, twice, on the floor. Spins it in his hands and throws it upwards He takes six steps, leaps into the air, and slams the ball down as hard as he can, eyes trained straight at the spot down the middle.

_Boom._

“No touch ace!”

“Nice one, Bo!”

He grins.

“Thanks!”

Yeah. He’s glad to have you back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow is that what they call development? stay tuned for more... on another note: we hit 2000+ reads! i have no idea why you all are touching this dumpster fire of a fic but thank you regardless <3


	18. things in life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But sometimes, the simplest of answers work the best.”
> 
> For the rest of the ride to the arena, you distantly wonder which one of you said the truth.

Rome wasn’t built in a day.

Recognition in the art world doesn’t come with just one series.

But while not explicitly stated, making 130 pieces in the span of a few months usually gets you at least a small boost in recognition, simply because of the sheer volume produced. Offers for group exhibitions, inquiries about commissions, requests for artist talks and workshops from studios flooded your inbox.

Aside from the select group exhibition offers, nothing else was particularly _new_ , just _more_. You agreed to some of the smaller commissions and workshops scattered for later in April and May. There was also a feature of Geidai graduates in an artist magazine you took part in, Minato’s words in the back of your mind.

And maybe you of a year ago would’ve jumped at each and every opportunity to get your foot in more doors.

Nowadays—

“Honestly, I’m a bit sick of anything art-related right now,” you confess. You’re sitting in one of the painting rooms of Nanase’s studio, the exact one where you held your own workshop in the fall. There’s not many ways to get comfortable on the stool you’re sitting on, still cold to the touch, but you try your best. 

Now, only the two of you are present (you barged in right before the studio’s opened) amongst the easels and paintings, but the tranquility is still the same. Art studios and museums, to some extent, are always like this—a muted atmosphere, no matter the number of people around. Time flows differently here, running on a different clock from the rest of the world.

Nanase takes a sip from his steaming coffee, setting it down on one of the mini tables where palettes are held. He’s currently working on a small painting of a rural landscape. “And what do you think about that?” he asks, dabbing a bit of muted green onto the canvas.

You shrug, your gaze travelling to an unfinished painting of a human figure leaning against the wall. Probably one of the ones from the figure painting class. “That maybe painting 130 new pieces wasn’t exactly the best idea?” you offer as you lean back slightly on the stool, tongue-in-cheek. “This is the whole turning point of my artist career or something, isn’t it? Having another burnout is probably the last thing I should be doing. So now I don’t really know what to do.”

Now that the contemporary scene has taken its interest in you, this warranted a change of people and connections to know. Very much unlike the Nihonga world, contemporary art is much less of a niche, meaning there’s a larger world to know, more exposure to be had. Connections meant opportunities. Of course, the more, the better.

All good things for an artist, in all honesty. 

“And who determines that?” Nanase continues focusing on his painting. He’s now adding a layer of a muted blue to the sky.

“What kind of question is that?” You furrow your brows. “I don’t know, the art world in general or something. Isn’t it one of those unspoken rules that everybody knows to follow or something?”

“And is that something you want to do?”

“What’s with all of these questions?” you grumble, sitting back upright. 

Nanase finally sets his brush down. “I personally believe you already know what you want to do, you just want to hear it. Go do more art. Ignore your burnout. Go do more things. Get your name out there in the world.” He swirls it in a cup of muddy water, a cloud of light gray forming from the leftover paint. “There’s no time to waste. You’re young, still a fresh face out there, so you think everything’s signalling green for you. Burnout is something you’ll just get over, because that’s something you have to do.”

“Isn’t it?” you cut in. “I thought I stopped caring about things like legacy and expectations, but that only applies to my grandfather. You can’t escape the whole idea of being famous in art.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know—I have to do the whole surviving thing, don’t I?” Your gaze travels to one of the finished paintings hanging near the top of the walls. It’s of a woman hiding in some trees with a muted, earthy color palette, her face in fear. “Gotta do the whole ‘developing my style’ all over again.”

Nanase wipes the water from the brush off with a piece of cloth in a graceful manner. “And this relates to fame, for what reason?”

“People are always wanting new things,” you answer listlessly with a sigh. “All just part of the job.”

This sentiment hasn’t changed much over time. Even if you’re making work that came from yourself, it’s still mostly out of an obligation to do so. For others. 

“What about yourself?” he asks, as if reading your mind.

“Myself?” you echo. “I don’t know what you mean. What about it?”

“I’ve seen a lot of people come through these doors, both amateurs and veterans. One thing I’ve found about artists over the years is that they’re always stuck in this ideal version of what they think being an artist is,” Nanase mixes an umber tone on his palette, adding a speck of cadmium yellow into the hue. “Of course, sometimes this can’t be helped. What the public perceives as artists is something they don’t have the complete freedom to escape from.

“But—” He dips his brush into the new color and starts to add details to the trees of his painting. “Sometimes they let this take over themselves completely. And there’s many versions of how this appears. Some are so self-absorbed in their works that think they’re beyond critique, beyond the gods even. Others, despite their renown, still believe there is always more to be done. I think these two are the most common that you see.”

You stay silent, biting your lip.

“There’s no need for an explanation to say you fall into the latter. There’s nothing wrong with this, truthfully. But you say art is a job to you. Therefore, I must ask: are you at least having fun?”

You’re about to say, _not at all_ , but the words don’t come out.

Recalling back to the very first painting of the series, the one of the jellyfish. That lone jellyfish was one of the few where nothing but getting the image in your mind onto the canvas mattered. From there, the chase continued: thinking of new ways to represent what was in your mind, different routes of expression.

To put it simply—it was _limitless._

And if that wasn’t at least _enjoyable_ , you're not sure what else constitutes as fun.

“I think,” you answer, your throat dry. You take a sip from your coffee, slightly bitter than you’d liked. “We’ll say that.”

“Then isn’t that enough?”

You snort, almost sending the coffee spraying out from your nose. “I can’t believe somebody like you is telling me that having fun is enough. Isn’t that what people think of artists too? That we’re all just frolicking around and wasting government money?”

“I didn’t mean it in that manner,” Nanase explains. He leans back in his seat, brush paused in his hand. “I meant having fun in your art.”

“What’s the difference?”

Nanase also takes a sip of his coffee before responding. “I could hardly care less about whether you think your art is a job or not. But the point of making art has always been to capture the beauty of everything. You have to believe in that beauty to make art you enjoy.”

“This relates to fun, how?”

He shrugs. “Just thought saying something like that sounded nice.”

Your mouth drops open. “What—”

“I’m kidding with you. You’re quite impatient.” You roll your eyes, but let him continue. “I’m not going to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do concerning what’s next in your career. Even if I told you taking a break is fine, I’m not sure how much you’ll actually listen to me. But if there is something I can tell you, it’s that you have to find the fun in it all, no matter what to do.” He pushes up his glasses.

“Being an artist isn’t limited to what you _think_ the world needs to see,” Nanase continues. He’s not looking at you, but he doesn’t need to. “You said so in your own exhibition, did you not? _Things in life will sometimes be out of reach and too vague to make sense of. Sometimes, it’ll look like there’s nowhere to go. But we are still ultimately in control of it all._ ”

Nanase’s speaking the exact words you wrote, but it’s a bit strange hearing it come from him. Something that doesn’t quite belong, something that doesn’t quite sound _right_. You tried writing from the heart. And there’s a truth somewhere in those words, but you’re not sure how strongly you believed in it.

“You and I both know I spewed bullshit on that,” you say with a sour look. “I’m surprised you actually remembered that much of it.”

“That so?” He dabs a bit of red onto his brush and continues to paint. “It sounds like it came from experience.”

“As if.” Your head lolls back as you stare at the blank ceiling. “It’s just some pretty words.”

“And isn’t that something beautiful?” 

Your shoulders tense in response.

“But it’s fake,” is all you can say.

“And? Who says it has to be real? When you produce an image, it automatically becomes influenced by whoever’s making it. You’re well aware of this, I know that. Fake or real, does it make a difference?”

Something like art can never be impartial or empirical, because it’s created by _someone_. If people believe in the poetry of life to live, art is one manner of depicting the poetry.

“Poetry…” you mumble, crossing your arms behind your neck. “Do you think we’re kind of like poets?” you ask, not exactly looking for an answer.

Life is beautiful. It _has_ to be beautiful, else there’s nothing keeping people here.

That—

Nanase chuckles lightly. “Depends on how you look at it, I suppose.”

is the poetry of it all.

A quiet settles in the atmosphere. The morning light filtering through from the windows falls into the studio, illuminating the silhouette of Nanase’s back.

“You haven’t really answered my question,” you muse.

“And I think you know the answer to what you’re asking,” he replies, dark eyes looking straight at you for the first time in the conversation. There’s an intensity in there, in the lines etched in his face, that says _you know what to do._

In a way, he’s right. Asking him _what to do_ despite your burnt-out state against the backdrop of growing fame was all just pretense, again. 

And, if you’re being serious, you only know that you have to continue making art. Take a short break for a while and then it’s back to the canvas. What you’ve been doing this whole time.

It’s funny, thinking about it. This is _just a job_ , yet it’s what your life revolves around. _Just a job_ , and it’s something you won’t give up, not even for the world.

Art imitates life. Life imitates art. 

At what point are they the same?

“As for more concrete solutions, you could try looking into artist residencies. Get some new ideas bouncing around in your head.” Nanase holds up his painting in the air. “I’m acquainted with a curator in Osaka who runs one and I’m sure they’ll be pleased to have you. Getting accepted wouldn’t be a problem for you.”

The weight on your shoulders releases all at once in exasperation. “Couldn’t you just have told me that beforehand? Was there any need for”—you gesture vaguely—”all of what you just said earlier?”

“That’s something up to you to determine,” he replies, all too casually. “You were the one who came in here with the answers you already knew of.”

 _Are all old men like you_? is on the tip of your tongue, but you bite the inside of your cheek to silence it.

Art—it can be a job, but that doesn’t stop you from enjoying it. There’s small bits of beauty found in the mundane. A thousand words can be said with something as simple as a couple strokes of a brush.

Isn’t that what everybody’s chasing after?

“Thanks then. I appreciate it.” You rise from your stool. “Sorry for taking up so much of your time. I’d like it if you can send me the details of that artist residency, it sounds interesting.”

“Of course.”

A beat later—”You know, I wouldn’t consider myself a painter or anything.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Aren’t you painting right now?”

“My background is in photography. I founded this studio with a friend of mine, who was a painter. But never once in my life did I ever think about picking up a brush. Too messy for me to handle.” His normally straight-drawn lips are curved upwards almost imperceptibly. “Seeing your show however, made me want to try it out."

“That so?” You take the last long sip of the now-lukewarm coffee, draining the cup. The bitterness washes down your throat, but you don’t mind it anymore. “Glad to hear it. It can be pretty fun.”

“That it is.” A glimmer of amusement flickers by in his eyes.

Without another word, you exit the quaint studio, returning to a midday Shinjuku crowd. Time begins its normal flow again.  
  


* * *

**bo**

[One link attached]

 _hey look! it’s you!!_ (21:34)

 _how did you even find this_ (21:35)

 _it’s kind of embarrassing_ (21:35)

 _my detective skills are really good!_ (21:36)

 _gotta stalk out my opponents and all_ 💪 (21:36)

 _don’t you have coaches who do that for you_ (21:36)

 _it’s more fun doing it on your own though!_ (21:37)

 _...whatever_ (21:37)

 _are you coming or not_ (21:37)

 _sorry!! i’ll be there in just a minute!!_ (21:37)

* * *

“But are you really mad?”

“...Well, not really I guess.”

“So if I watched it—”

You sigh, your eyes closed in brief meditation hoping that what you say next isn’t the end-all for you. “I can’t really stop you from doing that.”

“I’ll save it on the train ride then!” Bokuto grins. “And here! Please look over my handiwork!”

He presents you his chopped carrots with a note of pride. You’re not entirely sure just what exactly there is to be proud of, since—

“This is all over the place,” you mutter with a sigh, more out of pity than anything, looking at the carrots chopped in all sorts of sizes and shapes. “Absolutely none of it’s even.”

“It was my first time!” he pouts. 

“I’m just messing with you,” You reach over to grab the knife he used. With a paper towel, you wipe off the carrot residue and start slicing the okra. It turns out a bit too thin. “It’s honestly not that big of a deal.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re not saying that to make me feel better?”

A small smile of assurance forms on your lips as you start the potatoes. “I’m not. Throw them into the curry, please.”

“Roger!” Bokuto moves behind you to dump the carrots into the cooker, his side briefly brushing against your back. “What’s next?”

“I fry these.” Your chin motions to what you’re slicing. “Then once the curry’s done, we can eat.”

“How long does that take?”

“Half an hour, I think?”

He frowns. “That long? What are we supposed to do then?”

You try not to notice just how casually the word _we_ comes out. In a small frying pan pulled out from the back of the dishwasher, you drizzle some oil on the surface. “I don’t know. Make yourself at home or something,” you say, turning the knob adjusting the heat of the stove.

“But…” his eyes narrow, scanning your place. “Nothing about this really screams homey or anything. You don’t even have a TV or anything. Oh, my flowers look pretty nice though!” Bokuto goes over to the coffee table, admiring the colorful blooms placed in an owl vase.

“This is the life of an artist,” you call out. “Besides, this was your suggestion in the first place. Restaurants being too full right now and all.”

He takes a seat on your couch, like it’s natural to do so. “But it’s a nice change of pace, isn’t it?”

The oil on the pan starts to heat up, small bubbles popping on the surface. You drop in some of the vegetables. _Flash frying_ , as your mother called it.

Making dinner with Bokuto wasn’t something you ever considered a possibility, but you found yourself out shopping for groceries before he came back from practice, scrambling around to find what ingredients that were still not too far past the expiration date lying around in the kitchen cabinets.

Not something you were expecting at all, but that didn’t mean you were going to half-ass something.

And if you were being really honest—

“You could say that,” you reply over the symphony of sizzles.

Meaning:

You're enjoying this.

* * *

“So did you learn to make this from your mother? You said she was a chef, right?”

The two of you are now eating the soup curry in small bowls on the couch, shoulders close enough to brush if any of you moved.

You nod your head, swallowing your bite of food. “Soup curry. Something like a specialty of Sapporo.”

“Do you miss it?” he asks after chewing on a piece of carrot (and you’re right—how it’s chopped really doesn’t make a difference.) It’s a simple question to pass the time and fill the silence.

But the way your chopsticks linger for just a millisecond longer than it should piques Bokuto’s curiosity.

“I honestly don’t remember much of it.” You’re not looking at him, but he knows there’s something more to this. “It gets pretty cold though. So I don’t really know.”

“But you’re always drinking Sapporo,” he points out, head tilting towards the cans of beers on the coffee table. “Don’t you at least miss it a bit?”

“That’s just something out of habit,” you mumble, hiding your face with the bowl.

“We should go visit then!” he suggests. “After the finals.”

You stil, the tips of your chopsticks completely frozen before your lips. “Er—what?”

“Visit Sapporo,” he repeats, between chews of chicken. It’s better than he expected to taste. “I’ve never been! Hokkaido’s nice and cool in the summer, right?”

“Well, yeah, but—” the words stop coming out from your mouth as it closes unexpectedly. For a brief moment, something like pain flashes across your face.

_Oh._

Bokuto’s head jerks up in a panic. “Sorry, I didn’t think it through—”

“It’s fine.” You cut him off before he has the chance to continue. “We can go.”

“Don’t worry about it!” There’s a twinge of guilt in his tone. How could he forget? “Your family’s—”

“My family and you are very separate matters.” Reanimated, you swiftly shove down the piece of carrot between your chopsticks and swallow, maybe a bit too quickly as you choke slightly, pounding your chest once. He reaches out in alarm, but you recover in an instant. “You want to go, don’t you? I’ll take you there.”

“I don’t want to trouble you or force you into anything,” Bokuto presses on, leaning forward just a smidge. “That wouldn’t be fair to you.”

The side of your face tilts slightly and your eyes lock with his. His breath is caught in his throat. Swirling around in your eyes is a faint wisp of tenderness he doesn’t think he’s seen before.

“I appreciate the concern and all, but it only wouldn’t be fair if we went at a time you aren’t free,” you reply, the corner of your mouth twitching. “It’ll be fine. Hokkaido’s really big, you know. Lots to do there. I’m not gonna see my family around every turn and corner or something.”

You break the gaze first, turning your attention back to your dinner. Bokuto’s gaze lingers on your figure for just a moment longer before he also turns back to his, picking out a bit of potato. 

Bokuto’s selfish. He’s lonely. He takes and takes and takes, and sometimes takes more than what the other can give.

But here you are, _giving_ to him.

So it’s OK—

“Then I’ll take you up on that! No take backs!”

—if he indulges in this.

Right?

Your lips pause for just a brief moment at the edge of your bowl. “Yeah,” you say with a crack of a smile. “I’m sure you’ll find it fun.”

A feeling of satisfaction spreads in his chest even though he’s still only finished one bowl of the soup curry, cloaking him in a warmth he can’t quite explain.

“I’m looking forward to it!”

* * *

[One image file attached]

 _off to nagoya now!! see you in a day!!_ (12:34)

**saki kojirou**

_the image is really blurry…_

_don’t get lost there_ (12:36)

_you don’t trust me at all! i’m hurt! :(((_ (12:36)

_my bad ww_

_have fun, imma get some sleep_ (12:37)

_good night!!_

_wait, would it technically be ‘good afternoon’…_

_aaaah, too much to think about! sleep well!_ (12:37)

* * *

If Bokuto’s being honest, he’s still a bit unsure about the whole thing.

When you asked him _really?_ whether he minded the whole thing or not, he was just glad to have you back. Bokuto’s never been one to doubt his convictions, especially not at this point in life, when you have your feet planted on the ground and just a breeze isn’t enough to knock you over.

But when it comes to you—he’s not even sure where those convictions are to begin with. He treats every friend with care. Makes sure the fragile side up label is pointed up, though he might rattle the box around every now and then. It’s how he is as a person, then and now. Things like that don’t change so easily.

Now that he’s thinking about it though, if anyone else gave him that exact line you did those weeks back, he’s not sure if he would’ve responded in the same fashion he did.

It’s complicated. Akaashi had always told him that if he thought too much about things, he’ll only get himself more confused. Maybe this is one of those situations.

Bokuto peels himself away from looking outside the window of the train and pulls out his phone. Scrolling up in the chat with you, he finds the interview broadcast featuring you he sent just a couple days back. He clicks on the link, puts on his headphones, and presses play. 

“This is Saito Noriko for Ping Magazine covering this week’s video interview. If you are watching us from a broadcasting service, please be sure to check out our website afterwards. A link will be provided in the description,” a woman with coiffed hair says, her red lips drawn up in a pleasant smile. “Today, we have Sasaki (Name)-sensei with us to discuss her most recent series…”

The interview begins with a technical focus on your works as the two of you delve into the medium and techniques used to develop the paintings. Bokuto’s trying his best to listen, but all of the terms were a bit too foreign for him to understand. You talk about some of the pieces and where they’re from—mentioning the places he took you to a couple times. His mind drifts back to those days where he was just beginning to know you.

Back to the present, and Bokuto thinks the two of you have come a long way since then. 

(like it’s natural to do so, some part of him whispers.)

The scene changes. Now you and the interviewer are sitting down in front of one of your walls. Your dominant arm rests on your lap, hand tapping lightly on your knee.

“I apologize for starting off with the interview part with a question like this, but a figure like Sasaki Hideo in your life is not one that comes by often,” the interviewer begins. “Can you talk to me about how he’s influenced you, whether it be through your art or in your personal life?”

“No, I don’t mind at all.” You give her a pleasant smile. Bokuto’s a bit thrown off at how formal you sound. “My grandfather has been a very influential man, both as a person and as an artist to me. As much as I didn’t like hearing people saying they could see his influence in my portfolio, I think in my latest series, the very essence I tried getting to is quite similar to what he tried to accomplish. This sort of sense of observed and imagined life, is the best way I can describe it.”

“It’s a multisensory experience, though just in different ways?”

“Yes, that would be a good way to put it.”

The interviewer nods her head. “His waterfall paintings did leave quite the impact on its audience. Your new series has as well, with an astonishing 130 pieces made. But it’s quite different from what you’ve worked on over the years in Geidai, is it not? How did you arrive at such a method of style so late in your Geidai career?”

“I was... afraid, in a way.” You’re choosing your words with care, something he’s also not used to. “Artists are seen as the ones who are willing to try anything, be courageous, and take the bold leap forward. We are always constantly searching for new things and experiences that can influence our work, but I didn’t dare to step out of my comfort zone. Everybody around me started growing in ways I can’t even begin to describe. But my own journey felt like it was stagnant.

“And this really took a toll on me during my very last year. The piece I won for the Nitten—to be frank, I didn’t exactly enjoy making that one. When it was finished, I was more relieved I could show it in time for the exhibition than anything else. Though, I think artists will always think like that. Anyways, after the midyear festival was done, I went through an art block.”

“Ah, those are always the two words an artist doesn’t want to deal with, isn’t it?” the interviewer says, giving a sympathetic smile.

You let out a chuckle. “It really can be tough to get through, honestly. Because up to that point, I painted in ways that pleased other people, and after a while, I started to become complacent. I was afraid of changing, because I didn’t want to lose the public’s approval of what they saw as me. That too, is pretty ironic, now that I’m saying it out loud.”

“The freedoms of an artist are actually quite limited, aren’t they? No matter where you go, taking the idea of _fame_ out of art is always difficult.”

“It is hard, for sure. I don’t think I’ve quite escaped its grasp right now, either. But to answer your question of how this came so late, in a way the art block forced me to change.” You shift your position on the chair, crossing your other leg over. “You become displeased at your current state of things, so the natural course of action is that you change something to become content again. Or maybe something big happens that forces you to change. Ultimately, you have to make yourself change.”

“How do you see that change you speak of reflected in these works?”

“I think this is when I started to approach art with a more _I’m doing this for myself_ perspective, as cheesy as that sounds. I used to think there was a lot of difference between my older work and what you see here, as there’s no figure in these.” Your hand motions to the paintings. “I don’t really paint in the traditional way either. But a good acquaintance of mine said these were like if you took my older works and shattered them into pieces. I thought about that some more, and came to the idea that these are all sort of snapshots.”

“Snapshots—that’s an interesting way to put it. Could you elaborate more on that idea?”

“Basically, I see these as a very abstracted view of the everyday moments in my life. There is nothing particularly special or extraordinary surrounding these moments in these canvases. Though saying it ‘depicts life’ seems quite simple. In those 130 pieces, I tried to show everything about life, as hard as that is. Life is beautiful. Life is tough. Life is a lot of things, yet made by a lot of particular _nothings_ , if that makes any sense.”

The interviewer hums in thought, her mouth drawn in a thoughtful frown. “If anything, I think that idea comes through with just how much you’ve created. Then, I think that leads us into the next question. Why art, of all things to use? Why do you make art?”

“It’s funny you ask that—I once read an interview on my grandfather when I was around fourteen. _Why do you make art?_ was one of the questions the interviewer asked. My grandfather’s response, in a typical artist fashion, was _I don’t know_.”

Bokuto snorts lightly at this. What kind of an answer was that?

“Typical indeed…"

You nod. “You can probably imagine how fourteen-year-old me felt when he said that, after being wowed by everything he did. How could an ‘ _I don’t know_ ’ be why he painted? It didn’t make sense to me. But now, I think I’m finally starting to understand.

“Asking an artist _why do you make art_ is like asking somebody _why do you breathe?_ Because we just have to. Whether it’s because of our genes, God, or some other primordial reason, people make art because they are compelled to create. You feel limitless. I think everybody making art is chasing that sort of feeling.”

“It sounds like you have a lot of confidence then, in continuing with this sort of direction of your work. So what do you think your future looks like?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s really confidence, perhaps…” you pause, deep in thought. “As for the future, I think there’s still so much more I need to do. This series is rough around the edges and all over the place. At the end, you can tell the quality of the works is more rushed too. Some are downright lazy. I tried hanging them in separate places to not have that sort of feeling.”

“But that’s also a benefit of making 130 pieces, isn’t it?”

“It sure is. But I don’t think I can make 130 like this again, nor do I really want to. I wouldn’t say I’m bound by certain canvas sizes or subject matter either, so I may look to expand these concepts on a larger surface too—maybe add in the figure too. I guess you could see this series as both a greeting and a farewell.”

“In a way, this is sort of like learning the fundamentals all over again with art.”

“That it is. From the very beginning.”

“And for the final question then, do you have anything to say to the viewers and your fans?” Her face glances towards the camera, then back at you. “Any last parting words of advice to give to aspiring artists?”

“Parting words… let’s see here,” you begin, placing your hand underneath your chin. “As long as you have a desire to create, you can make art. Having passion is not always a big wildfire, like some people say. It can be just a small spark, a candle flame. Sometimes you might not even think it’s there. But we’re always chasing for that moment where we’re engulfed in our passion, because that’s where we feel the most happy. Once you have that moment, art will stay in your life. You might forget about it down the line, but art is vital to life. There will always be ways to find it again.

“As for other artists out there listening, I believe we are all on our own journeys, and we may never reach the end goal, but that’s not the important part. The important part is the journey, the path itself. The end result is just one small step on that road.” You look back at the interviewer with a small smile. “Yeah, I think that’ll do as an ending.”

She chuckles. “I think it wraps this segment up quite nicely as well too, then. Once again, I am grateful for you taking the time to do this…”

Bokuto’s not sure why, but after watching your interview he’s burning with the need to do _something_ , even if he zoned out for some parts of it.

“Alright! I’m excited!” he whoops as he springs right up in his seat, to the alarm of a beginning-to-doze off Atsumu next to him.

“Keep it down some, will you? I’ve no idea what happened, but some of us are trying to sleep here,” Atsumu groans, covering his ears. 

But a bit later: "About what?" is asked, quietly.

“Finals, of course! We’re gonna win it this year too!” declares Bokuto with nothing but determination in his tone.

With a sound of exasperation, Atsumu rolls his eyes. "Of course we are. What else are we here for? I'm going back to sleep now."

"Sorry for waking you!" Bokuto whisper-yells. The setter raises his hand in an _it's alright_ gesture, closing his eyes once again. Bokuto turns back to his phone and presses play his road trip playlist. Strains of a guitar play out as he closes his eyes.

The train speeds away on the tracks as he drifts away into sleep, his last conscious thoughts your final words from the interview.

* * *

_your interview was really cool!! i didn’t understand a lot of it but it got me inspired!!_ (13:23)

 _but seeing you talk all formal like that was kind of weird haha_ (13:23)

 _ah wait, you’re still sleeping, aren’t you? sorry!_ (13:24)

* * *

“So you’re telling me that your next door neighbor is a pro volleyball player, and a Division I player at that, and you never told me?”

“Uh… I forgot?”

“How do you forget something like that? Hasn’t it been almost a year since you moved there?”

Harada managed to snag a ticket for the finals and blew up the groupchat about it, so you ended up boarding the same train out to Nagoya with him. The two of you step onto the platform after an almost two hours’ ride. Alongside the stream of people flowing by, you start walking up the stairs.

“We’ve only started talking to each other since the beginning of this year,” you reply, cracking your wrists. “‘Sides, not like you asked or anything.”

“Why does that make a difference?”

“So where are we going next?” you ask, ignoring his question.

“The Aonami Line,” Harada answers with a touch of resignation. “I know where it is—I come here a lot since I have family here, so just follow me.” He starts walking a couple paces in front of you, shoving his hands into his olive jacket pockets. You hurry to catch up to him in fear of losing him in the crowd.

“Ever the reliable one, aren’t you?” you sigh. “I guess that’s why you and Rie work out nicely.”

“Oh, you heard about that?” Harada glances back at you with an embarrassed smile. “I’m still a bit in shock about it myself. We seem like we butt heads all the time, but we’re surprisingly similar.”

“Like opposites attract or something?”

He gives a slight shake of his head, eyebrows furrowed in thought. “Not exactly, but… I guess we do fit into each other's lives nicely. Like we fill the holes and gaps of the other person.”

A certain image of a certain person pops into your head, but you dissolve the thought before it forms.

“Aren’t you going to America?” you ask, barely avoiding bumping into someone’s shoulder. “What’s going to happen then?”

He steps onto the escalator going down, you follow just a step behind. The silver Nagoya clock on the floor below comes into view, standing a couple heads above the crowd.from all different walks of life.

“It’s not like we’re doing anything serious right now,” he replies, shifting his weight to the other leg as his back leans against the railing. “Rie wants to move to America anyways, so we’ll probably be in the same place one day. She’ll be here for a year or so, depending on how her work turns out.”

You purse your lips in thought. “That all sounds really complicated.”

Harada chuckles. “I guess. But it works for us. I think that’s all that matters really.”

He steps off the escalator first, you follow right behind. After some more walking, the Aonami line entrance comes into view. At the machines, you purchase a ticket for the train with a couple taps on the glowing screen and a slide of a card.

“Tell me what your neighbor’s like,” Harada says after passing through the gate. There’s less people here in the hallway, but the indistinct clamouring in the background is all the same. A clock reads 10:46 in neon red lines.

“Why do you want to know?”

“We’ve got some time to spare before the train comes,” he replies with a grin. “You said the two of you have talked before, right? Are you close? Can I get an autograph?”

“Woah woah woah, slow down there.” Exasperation’s thick in your tone as you hold up your hands in defense. “One question at a time. He’s just a person, you know.”

“Sorry, sorry. But it’s not everyday you live right next to a pro player!” Excitement rushes through his tone. You hadn’t expected him to be this curious about the matter. “Then, what’s he like? Bokuto Koutarou-senshu, right?”

“Somehow I remember that not being any of the questions asked."

Harada crosses his arms with a slight turn of his head in indignance—something Rie likes to do too. “It’s still a question.”

“Well—” you begin as the two of you arrive at the platform and stop walking some ways in the middle, the spring air greeting you. In front of you are lines of empty tracks. Beyond that, Nagoya sprawls out underneath a gray sky. “He’s somebody.”

“That means what?” Harada’s face immediately shifts into a miffed expression, a classic _are-you-serious_ look. It’s a less-than-desirable answer; you know this well.

“I don’t know—he’s kind of an extreme person? He used to have crazy loud parties at the end of last year almost every week. That was really annoying.” Your face sours at the thought. “He’s the really optimistic type, I guess. You know how extroverts are like, right? Take that and just add it with a mix of—I don’t know—high emotional intelligence and—” you swallow thickly, the realization that none of what you’re saying is making any coherent sense settling into your mind. “Simplemindedness or something,” you finish quietly.

“Huh,” is all Harada manages out at your ramble. “Sounds like the two of you are pretty close.”

“And where did that come from?”

“Well, are you?”

You open your mouth to retort, but you’re not sure what to say. The second realization—you just _don’t know anymore_ —pops into your mind.

“Er. Kind of,” you start.

Harada looks at you expectantly, a silent gesture to continue.

“It’s like, we are? But I think that’s only because of how he is as a person.” Your eyes narrow curiously in thought. “At the same time, it’s kind of hard to gauge just… where that starts and ends.”

He hums questioningly in response. “And who was the one calling my situation complicated? I thought a simple yes or no would do, really.” 

An announcer comes on over the speakers voicing the arrival of the train. In the far distance, a pair of headlights approaching comes into view.

“And I’m saying a yes or no isn’t enough to answer it,” you argue, taking a couple steps closer to the yellow line. The train slows down and stops with a _hiss_ as the doors open and people shuffle out. “Some things aren’t as simple as that.”

“That so?” Harada’s voice is barely distinguishable over the din of the crowd, but you catch it all the same. “But sometimes, the simplest answers are the best ones, aren’t they?”

Without another word, the two of you board the train. Standing in front of a row of blue seats all filled by various people, you grab onto a handle, the plastic still warm to the touch. A couple beeps announce the doors closing as the last stragglers board.

“I don’t know then,” you decide to say as the train starts to pick up speed. Harada gives you an odd look, but his silence signals the end of that conversation.

For the rest of the ride to the arena, you distantly wonder which one of you said the truth. 

* * *

  
  


_that’s why i said i was embarrassed…_ (11:24)

 _but thanks_ (11:24)

 _i’m here now_ (11:25)

[One image file attached]

* * *

Amidst all the cheers and hollering of the audience, his own teammates and the opposing players poised in their positions, ready to spring at a moment’s notice, Bokuto’s vision is only focused on one spot of the court.

He tosses the ball high up in the air. Takes his six steps, soars, and hits the ball with a hard _thwack._

The red flag from the line watcher goes down. With a harsh tweet of the whistle—

“That was an insane corner!” somebody next to you gasps. “So cool!”

And you watch it all with a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Harada was right—it didn’t take much to get into a game of volleyball. Even with your rudimentary knowledge of the sport from Bokuto’s recommended videos he showed you after dinner that night, enjoying the game you came surprisingly easy. On their own, your hands applaud, already red and numb.

Bokuto serves again. With a graceful dip, the opposing libero receives the ball, sending it flying into the air. A forearm bump sends it over to the setter, who then tosses it to one of the spikers. Their arm swings down in a flash, but the ball’s blocked by a man with slicked-back hair, landing with a dull thud onto the court.

(“ _That’s our captain, Meian-san!_ ” Bokuto told you, his shoulder pressed against yours. “ _He’s a solid guy! Perfect fit for a captain._ ”

“ _But weren’t you captain before?_ ” you asked, trying to not be too aware of how close his face was to yours.

“ _I was! But I just want to be an ordinary ace now. Maybe later I can be a captain again, but...”_ He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “ _Definitely not right now.”_ )

You almost miss the next play, seeing the Jackals’ blond setter (“ _He can be an asshole sometimes, but he’s a good guy!_ ”) setting the ball, which Bokuto spikes down cleanly past the blockers.

“Bokuto Beaaaaam~!” the crowd hollers. The sea of black where the Jackals fans are seated goes wild. The sound rings in your ears, but you can’t quite hide the smile on your face. Back on the court, Bokuto pumps his fist into the air. 

“Hey hey hey!” he yells out, pumping his fist in the air, to the added excitement of the crowd.

Bokuto on the court isn’t much different from his off-court version: from start to finish, he was a barrelling ball of energy dictating the mood of the game. His every action captured the fans of both sides; the people sitting a couple rows below you decked in Green Rockets merch started cheering alongside the _Bokuto Beams._ The waves of passion radiating from his body are practically visible, bringing the entirety of the arena’s attention to him.

The Jackals score again, now in match point. Your breath holds again as the opposing team hits the serve over—

And it goes far, soaring over the heads of the MSBY players. You unconsciously lean forward in your seat, watching the ball fly to a place seemingly impossible to touch.

But their libero’s faster as he sprints to pick it up with a slide. “It’s up!” he yells. Somebody follows through with a bump. “‘Tsumu!”

It happens in an instant—the setter sends the ball in a graceful swoop across the air and it meets the palm of their #10 (“ _His Japanese is surprisingly good! And he’s purely focused on attacking!_ ”). He’s faced with two blockers, but it doesn’t matter. With a heavy slam, the ball’s sent crashing into the floor.

And the whistle blows, signalling the end of the match, the end of the season, and the victors. 

The crowd erupts into a thundering frenzy as the Jackals crash into each other, celebrating their grueling victory. You stand up and applaud once again for the team.

(“ _I betcha you’ll enjoy it live!”_ he said after the last video ended, his can of beer swirling around in his hand. “ _You see, volleyball is a sport where we don’t let the ball drop. Everything we do is for the team.”_ )

“Yeah, I did,” you whisper.

This time, the smile on your face splits into a grin.

* * *

_hey! you’re still here, right??_ (15:47)

_i’m at my seat_

_section M_ (15:49)

* * *

Bokuto usually loves the spotlight of the press conferences and photo ops. 

Especially when they’re directed at him.

And winning the finals is the cherry on top.

This time around however, he all but rushes through the interviews and poses for the camera flashes, sprinting through all the press-related stuff as if he’s in a race. When the team’s _finally_ let go by the journalists after what felt like an eternity, Bokuto doesn’t even bother changing out of his uniform to find you. His legs are still numb from the five sets just played earlier but he ignores it as he sprints back to the inside of the arena.

He spots you immediately, standing in front of your seat. Bokuto dashes over, not bothering to take the stairs as he leaps across the rows of seats. There’s still a decent amount of people still milling around, some staring at the spiker in a hushed awe, but he’s not focused on that right now. 

“Saki!” He envelops you in a giant hug once he reaches you, almost toppling the both of you over.

 _You’re here,_ and that’s all that matters right now.

“Woah there,” is the first thing you say, muffled in his chest. Bokuto’s not sure whether it’s him or you that’s warm, but it’s cozy. He feels your hands pat his back. “Be careful there.”

“Did you like it?” he asks as he pulls back, staring intently at your face. “Aren’t my spikes the coolest?”

“Yeah, that was pretty fun,” you reply with a smile, making his heart soar with excitement. “I think I understand why you use so many sounds to describe them now. They were all going _bam_ and _woosh_ and _swoot_.” 

You make little slamming motions and he laughs. “Right, right? That last one I did was the best one!” He puts his hands on his hips, reliving the rush. “Our setter’s really amazing for getting that one up!”

“That so? It looks all the same to me up here—” you gesture to the court down below. “It all happens so quickly too, and I honestly couldn’t really understand anything that was going on, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“And your problem can be solved by coming to more games,” somebody says. Bokuto turns around, seeing Kuroo walking up the stairs to where the two of you are. “Good afternoon,” he says with a nod of his head. “My name’s Kuroo Tetsurou. I’m the one who gave you the ticket.”

“Good afternoon,” you reply with a light bow. “Sasaki (Name). Thank you for your hospitality. Is it really fine if I take it for no payment though?”

He brushes off your concern with a wave. “Don’t worry about it, a free ticket or two won’t hurt the sales. Besides—” his lips form a smile, though there’s a touch of something sinister in it. “This is but a small price to pay for a potentially larger reward to be reaped.”

“Oh?” You cross your arms and a questioning look appears on your face. “You’d do all of this for just one more person to attend these games?”

“But of course.” His promoter side is now in full effect and Bokuto’s not entirely sure where the conversation’s headed. “I’m a nice and kind person, you see, and I love volleyball a lot.” Kuroo holds up a finger. “You may think of yourself as just one person, but the effect spreads like a ripple through your circles. One person can become 10 in an instant.”

“You’re putting a lot of trust in an artist.” Bokuto’s head swivels back to you. There’s a silkiness in your tone that’s somewhat scaring him, if he’s being honest. “We’re all poor and living on the streets. A waste of society's money.”

Kuroo chuckles. “I wasn’t aware that there’s artists who actually embrace that.”

You stiffen, if only for a millisecond. “Well—” you clear your throat. “I’ll use it if it benefits me. Besides, you talk about investment, but aren’t TVs and livestreams more and more popular these days?”

“Of course.” He spreads his arms out. “But there’s still people who come to the live events, since there’s the emotional thrill you get from sitting in these seats that you don’t get sitting at home. This added factor is what made the whole arena fill up today.”

And Bokuto’s just about to drown out the rest of the conversation completely, until somebody calls out his name.

“Bokkun!” Atsumu’s standing near the entrance of the court. “Team meeting’s starting soon! Hurry up!”

“I’ll be there in a bit!” he yells back with a wave. 

You check the time on your phone. “Oh, I should get going too, my train’s in an hour and I should probably not make my friend wait for too long.”

“Let’s go then! I’ll see you out!” Bokuto pushes past you and Kuroo, walking down the steps. There’s a momentary lapse in conversation as the three of you walk across the court.

And now, Bokuto decides, is the best time to spring up what’s been on his mind lately.

He pushes open the door to the lobby of the stadium, letting you walk out first. “Um, d’you mind if I ask you for something?” he begins, his chest fluttering weirdly.

“What’s up?”

“Er—do you mind if I hold a party this Sunday?” Bokuto claps his palms together, trying his best to not act too anxious. It’s a simple question, but he’s not sure why his heart is hammering so loudly. “I promise it’ll be the last one! But I really want to celebrate this win…”

He hears your breath draw in sharply as you walk past him. “That’s not something you really need to ask permission for, you know.”

“I still want to make sure!” he argues, rushing to catch up to you, Kuroo a couple paces behind. The lobby of the stadium is mostly quiet with a couple people scattered around.

“I appreciate it, I guess. Please try to be somewhat conscious of the noise levels then.” All too soon, you’ve arrived at the exit. You stop right in front of the doors. “Whoever sings enka does a really bad job at it.”

“Sorry about that!” he laughs, though it’s slightly out of embarrassment. “But are you really OK with it?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. You deserve to celebrate and all.”

“You could come too?” he offers slyly.

“Absolutely not.” You shut down the idea without even room to think about it. “That’s not my scene at all. See you later then.” You walk forward, the automatic doors sliding open.

“Bye!” Bokuto calls out. You raise a hand in farewell with just the slightest of glances backwards. He watches your figure get smaller in the distance until it’s out of sight.

“So that was her?” Kuroo finally speaks up. They start walking to where the MSBY team bus is, located on the other side of the arena, the afternoon light slanting through the large windows. Here, there’s hardly a soul in sight.

“What’d you think?” he asks.

Kuroo hums in thought. “Pretty plain, if I’m being honest.”

Bokuto’s known Kuroo for long enough to know the way his tone dips a bit more than normal means he’s not being entirely truthful. There’s a neutral expression on Kuroo’s face, drawn maybe a bit too tightly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he pouts. “Her art is really amazing, you know!”

“Isn’t art pretty subjective though?” Kuroo runs his fingers through his hair. “All up to the person who sees it.”

Bokuto’s eyebrows furrow. “I guess it is…” he muses. “Ah, wait, that’s not important right now! You two seemed pretty chummy with whatever you were going on about.”

“That was just our business sides coming out,” replies Kuroo with a hint of a smile and darkened eyes. “An entertainment act, if anything.”

Before Bokuto can press for more, Kuroo’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out. “Kenma’s getting impatient now, so I’ll get going,” he says, pocketing his phone. Kuroo veers off to the right where the automatic doors are. 

“I can see why you like her though,” he calls out as the doors slide open. “See you Sunday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if all the art stuff was a drag to read through. wondering where akaashi went? don't worry... on another note; not sure how feasible weekly updates will be anymore as we're nearing the end (and woah that's weird to type out), so expect some possible delays.


	19. sputnik (sweetheart)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey. Look outside,” Akaashi murmurs, nudging you gently. “The sunrise.” 
> 
> A smile forms on your lips. “You finally got to see it.”
> 
> “Indeed.” He smiles as well. It’s a bit bittersweet. “Inevitably.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry...

“You’re kidding me.” Kuroo’s voice is a bit fuzzy over the phone, but there’s no mistaking the disbelief in his voice. “It’s April, isn’t it? This an April Fools’ joke?”

“It’s March 28th,” replies Akaashi, knowing full well it’s not the answer Kuroo’s looking for. He wants to say that _yes, this whole thing is a joke, did I surprise you?_ so the atmosphere’s less tense. But the universe doesn’t grant him that sort of luxury, not today.

“So—er, that’s why you’re asking to stay over here?” Kuroo asks, still thick with confusion. Maybe it’s because he’s still half-asleep—it’s still pretty early, but Akaashi’s not surprised. Not just because he’s springing this onto Kuroo so last-minute, but because of how _absurd_ the whole situation is.

“Yes. I just need a couple weeks’ time to find an apartment.” He leans against the doorframe of his now-empty dorm as support. “It won’t be for very long.”

There’s an intake of a sharp breath on the other end. “And you don’t see any sort of problem with this,” says Kuroo, each word drawn out slowly, deliberately. “Absolutely zero?”

“Absolutely zero,” Akaashi affirms. Actually, there’s a lot of problems if you step back and look at it. Maybe too many, if you think about it.

“You’re dropping out.” Each word drops like a blunt hammer, an attempt to rationalize it all, nailing it into reality. “Of college. You. Akaashi Keiji.” 

And despite the situation he’s in, Akaashi can’t help but crack a small smile at Kuroo’s current state—it’s rare to catch him off-guard. “Yes. That I am.”

When somebody says they’re dropping out of college, most people don’t believe them. It takes said person to actually _drop out_ before others realize _hey, where did they go?_ and sometimes, it still doesn’t settle until the person’s actually gone from the campus.

What’s expected is that Akaashi Keiji is _not_ one of those people. He has good grades and keeps up with his studies as his other classmates are out partying.

But reality doesn’t work out like what’s expected.

This is his:

Akaashi Keiji is now officially, fully, a college drop-out.

A stretched moment of silence follows as Kuroo lets out a long exhale, clearly unsure of how to approach the conversation from here. “What about Bokuto’s place?” he finally asks. “You’re closer with him than me.”

“Questionable living habits."

 _And you’re too close by,_ he adds on silently.

Kuroo chuckles in agreeance, the first sound of mirth since the beginning of the call. “I’ll give you that. When we were roommates for a bit, that was…” his voice trails off in distaste, reliving whatever memories he’s had with Bokuto. “But that’s beside the point now. Uh, is everything going alright with you?”

The true note of concern in Kuroo’s question, another rare occurrence, makes Akaashi almost want to answer honestly.

 _Almost_.

Because technically speaking: no.

But then again, when does anything go _alright_?

“Perfectly fine.” Akaashi adjusts the position of his phone, his gaze traveling up to the blank ceiling. The last time he’ll see this dorm. Nothing like sadness or melancholy settles in his heart—on the contrary, he doesn’t think he’ll be missing college all that much.

“If you say so, I guess.” Confusion now replaced by resignation, Kuroo sighs, clearly giving up on the conversation. “Well, I’m at home right now, so feel free to swing by and get settled in.”

“Alright then. I’ll be there in a bit.” Akaashi’s free hand rests on the handle of his packed suitcase.

A beat later—”Thank you. For doing this.”

“Don’t mention it.” He can practically see Kuroo’s smirk on the other end. “Like I’ve always said, I’m a nice person.”  
  


* * *

Akaashi arrives at Kuroo’s apartment half-past ten, greeted by a mostly-awake Kuroo. 

“And here’s the balcony. I don’t really use it all that much, so feel free to do whatever here,” says Kuroo with a large yawn as he slides open the glass door of his balcony, revealing the small bit of outdoor space. The morning light gives the gray sky a dull sheen. “And that concludes the Kuroo’s Apartment Tour. Any questions?”

“I don’t have any,” Akaashi replies, bowing slightly. “Thank you once again for letting me stay here.”

It’s a bit strange how he’s come to rely on Kuroo these days (maybe not _rely_ —more just _being more aware_ of him). Being in his company alone, Akaashi always has his guard up. Without Bokuto, Kuroo’s just a touch more sly, acting like he’s deliberately withholding information from you. He’s the type of person to dance around a problem, find its weak point, and then shatter it. 

“And like I said, don’t worry about it.” Kuroo waves him off breezily. “You can stay as long as you want, I wouldn’t want to miss a chance to be indebted by the Akaashi Keiji—”

“I’ll be moving out at the earliest convenience—”

“Did you really have to say it that fast?"

Akaashi pushes up his glasses. “I don’t want to trouble you any further, Kuroo-san. You’re already doing a lot for me.”

Kuroo gives him a look, exasperated yet tinged with a tired fondness. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need. Not like I’ll be around here for much.” He scratches his head. “Besides, you’re probably a better roommate than Bo.”

Akaashi blinks. “I didn’t know you had such a side—”

“Alright. Taking it all back.”

A slight chuckle slips past his lips. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says as a show of concession. 

Akaashi goes over to where his futon is in the living room, one that Kuroo took the liberty of pulling out (“ _My finest hospitality for you”_ ) from a forgotten corner of a closet. He starts unpacking his suitcase, pulling out his toiletries and clothes, while Kuroo walks over to the kitchen.

He hears the crack of an egg. “You sure you’re alright though?” Kuroo asks once again. 

Except—Kuroo’s also the type of person to really, truly care for the people around him. Because that’s just how he is.

Akaashi bites the inside of his cheek, thinking of a response. It’s easy to let out all of his worries swirling around in his mind, each a thread making a spider web that grows by the day. His mind’s always turning wheels to make sense of things.

Except—Akaashi’s not one to say what he’s thinking so easily.

Because that’s just who he is.

“Just fine.” He swallows down whatever he’s thinking and closes his suitcase, ending the conversation there.  
  


* * *

  
  


Unexpected (n.): not expected or regarded as likely to happen. Synonyms are unpredicted, unforeseen, unanticipated, _out of the blue_.

Akaashi learns three things from this whole situation—

 _One_ , that the world may give you a millisecond of a pause before it moves on.

Everybody more or less responds in the same way. The people at his college are the most adamant, unable to fathom at how he’s arrived to this conclusion. His coworkers are a bit more understanding—some giving him warnings for his future masked underneath surprise, others offering to help find apartments. Tomokazu flat-out asks him, “ _wow, are you sure that’s a good idea?_ ”

Akaashi shrugs. “Only time will tell, I suppose.”

His senpai quirks an eyebrow as he scarfs down his lunch (ramen, unsurprisingly). “You’ve really dragged yourself into this world now, haven’t you?” he says in between bites. “I’d say you’ve got guts, if anything.”

“Is that so.” Akaashi pauses over his sandwich, something he made from the scraps of food in Kuroo’s fridge. “I just felt like it made the most logical sense.”

Tomokazu scratches his head with an exasperated sigh. “And you do realize that most people don’t see that as the next logical step, right?”

( _Two_ , that maybe, just _maybe_ , his line of thinking isn’t as normal as he makes it out to be.)

“I suppose that’s true, yes.” Akaashi’s eyes wander to the sample of the next chapter of Zomb’ish for proofreading, of which he still has to go through half of it. “If I decide I don’t want to work in this industry next year, this would’ve been a poor decision.”

“You don’t say. In this economy, too. Well—” Tomokazu finishes his lunch and caps the container with a red plastic lid. “We’re all here if you need us for anything.” 

Akaashi bows his head. “Thank you, I appreciate it.” 

And none of this surprises him. Like clockwork, he’s anticipated each and every single one of these reactions. He weaves through each with a polite mask, making sure to not step on any toes or drag on the conversation further. 

If there’s anybody who deflects from the status quo—

“Really? Good luck,” Bokuto says. They’re sitting in a small restaurant tucked away near Ueno Station—Bokuto complained about Akaashi’s abrupt disappearance from the exhibition and wanted to “ _make up for some lost time, since we haven’t really seen each other in a while_.”

“You aren’t surprised?” Akaashi asks as he takes a sip from his drink, the ice clinking around in the glass.

Bokuto shrugs. “Don’t see a reason to be, really. You’re mature and think through your decisions. I think you know what’s good for yourself.” He slurps on his noodles, the steam wafting upwards. “So anyways, the other day I saw a cat on the street…”

Both you and Bokuto accepted and moved on from his statement in the same breath. Not badgering him with many questions (though neither of you offer to help).

Truthfully, it’s easier like this.

(truthfully: he’s thankful for it.)

So _three_ , maybe it’s better that the world doesn’t stop.

“Well, anyways. You said you were coming to the finals, right?” Bokuto switches the conversation once again (the story being that the cat looked a lot like Kuroo). 

“I am.”

“So—” Bokuto leans forward conspiratorially, his eyes trained directly onto Akaashi’s. His voice drops, as if talking about a secret. “I got Saki a ticket the other day from Kuroo and gave it to her during her graduation, but I’m not really sure if she’ll come… D’you think she will?”

Akaashi stills, trying to keep his face neutral. There’s a lot of things Bokuto dropped on him in just that statement alone that he’s not sure how to sort through it all. Being with Bokuto alone is always like this—jumping from one point to another in the span of a second. Considering how long Akaashi’s known him for, he _should_ be more prepared for something unexpected at every turn.

Operative word: should. Because how do you prepare for the unexpected in the first place?

“Saki?” Akaashi asks, his brows furrowing slightly. “Who’s that?” 

_Wait—_

“That’s my nickname for my neighbor,” explains Bokuto, leaning back against the seat again. “I thought about using Kojirou because of the samurai and all, but that’s not really a nickname…”

Akaashi hums in response, taking another sip from his drink. Like it was yesterday, he still remembers Bokuto’s wavering attitude over attending your show. Now Bokuto’s given you a nickname (and you probably have one for him too), a ticket for the finals, and who knows what else? He briefly wonders exactly _how_ things can happen like that but it’s not his place to know, he reminds himself. In the first place, he’s not really surprised at this development.

“Why wouldn’t she go?” he asks, picking at the tempura on his plate. 

“I don’t know—I guess I’m still kinda nervous over the whole thing.” Bokuto rests his cheek on one hand. There’s a conflicted look on his face, one that makes his eyes go completely blank. “Like I know she’ll come, but there’s the chance that she _doesn’t._ ”

Bokuto’s concerns, on a grander scale, always seem so trivial. Worrying over whether somebody will come to watch your finals versus the whole situation of being a drop-out, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out which one has a larger impact. But Bokuto’s priorities are about the people around him, so they might as well be balanced on the scale. Whenever he runs into problems with them, there’s always fifty million scenarios his mind comes up with, all creating tangled knots in his mind.

It’s funny how they share this similarity. Most people look at them and see two polar opposites, wondering exactly how their friendship even came to be about. Akaashi’s not too sure anymore either, and while they may not talk as much anymore, it still _exists_ to this day. 

(and in a way, this applies to you as well.)

“I’m sure she’ll go,” Akaashi says, in an attempt to placate the spiker. Again, he can’t say for certain. Truthfully, he’s not really sure what you’re doing now, after graduation. “Besides, what will you do if she doesn’t?”

(and it’s not like he’s ever known what you were doing. back in middle school, he had a firmer grasp on it purely due to the distance (or rather, the lack thereof). nowadays, he gets bits and scraps from those phone calls.)

Bokuto frowns at the question, absentmindedly staring out the window. The midday crowd of Ueno passes by, all people searching for places to eat and rest. 

Here’s the difference between them:

Bokuto takes all the fifty million scenarios in his head and takes it all head-on, praying to whatever’s out there that he’s made the right choice.

“I haven’t really given thought about it…” he begins, grabbing some more noodles from his bowl. “But, it’s not really like I can force her or anything, I guess.”

Akaashi, on the other hand, stays still. Freezes up like a deer in headlights. Because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“I see,” he says, picking up a piece of tofu.

Yours and Bokuto’s world doesn’t give him time to stop. They’re spinning on some rotation speed different from everybody else. _OK, that’s cool. So what?_ they tell him, and he doesn’t have a proper answer for it.

And he doesn’t need one either.

“Ah!” Bokuto’s eyes light up. “Wait, if you’re dropping out, where are you gonna live? Does your job pay you that well?”

“I’m currently staying over at Kuroo-san’s,” he responds. “I’ll be looking for an apartment in the meantime. I’m sure there’s one that I can find that works within my budget.”

Actually, he’s not too sure if this is possible. Living in Tokyo isn’t the easiest thing in the world, and his salary isn't something to be boasted about. While his credit isn’t the worst, he’s still a new renter. To top it all off, he’s doing this whole thing on his own.

“I see.” Bokuto hums thoughtfully. With a determined nod—“Yep, you definitely have this all planned out.”

But the way Bokuto places his trust in him, without hesitation nor question—

“It’ll work out somehow,” Akaashi replies, in an act to convince himself as well.

It has to, doesn’t it?

Akaashi’s never been a decisive person. Always following what people expected him to do. There’s fifty million scenarios running in his head, all circling in his mind at all times. A laundry list of problems from this situation so long he could make a volume of manga from it, maybe even two.

But frankly, he doesn’t care about it anymore.

Because—going back to the first thing Akaashi learned—the world will continue to move.

“Yup!” Bokuto gives him a confident grin, finishing the last of his noodles. He stands up with a stretch. “That was some good food! I’ll be going then! See you later!” 

He leaves, and Akaashi’s left alone at the small table in the restaurant. There’s a smooth jazz track playing in the background against the indistinct chatter of the other patrons and the gentle clinking of utensils.

_He actually left money for his bill this time._   
  


* * *

  
  


Living in Kuroo’s apartment is a bit more troublesome than expected. Despite Kuroo saying he wouldn’t be around much, Akaashi always finds him in the apartment after work. It’s almost impossible to not see the mess of hair whenever Akaashi turns a corner. 

(and maybe this was just a way for Kuroo to look out after him, so deep down, Akaashi doesn’t mind it so much.)

“I’m back,” Akaashi announces, opening the door.

“Oh, welcome back,” Kuroo says without even glancing his way, sitting on the couch. He’s eating something from a takeout box—leftovers from last night, most likely—while watching something on the TV sitting in the corner. “Did you eat already?”

“Yes, we had a group dinner tonight.” Akaashi takes off his shoes, slipping his feet into his pair of 100 yen slippers. “I wasn’t able to bring anything back, my apologies.”

“Don’t worry about it. How’s the search going?” Kuroo kicks up his feet onto the couch, effectively taking up all the space and some more with his lanky body. He cracks open a can of beer—work must’ve been long for him today.

“I’ve narrowed down my search to three possibilities,” he replies, walking over to his laptop at the dining room table that he’s more or less staked his claim on. “I’ll be doing tours of them later in the week.”

Kuroo lets out a low whistle. “Efficient, aren’t you? Little Akaashi-kun is all grown up—”

“I highly advise you to not continue that sentence.”

With a chuckle, Kuroo reaches for the remote and changes the channel, flipping through a couple before settling on some reality television program. A laugh track plays out. “But you’re really going through this quickly, aren’t you? What’s the rush?”

“I don’t want to impede on you for—”

“Not that.” Kuroo cuts in, taking a sip of his beer. “Your real answer.”

Akaashi pauses as he watches his laptop screen flicker to life. What kind of a question was that? Isn’t it natural for him to want to leave as quickly as possible?

“You need to take a break,” continues Kuroo, as if reading his mind. “And now’s the perfect time to do that, don’t you think?”

“I’m in the transition stage of moving to a new place,” Akaashi counters, typing out his password. A myriad of webpages greets him as he’s logged in. “I hardly think a break is important right now.”

He has to keep moving forward. There’s no time to rest, not when everything can come crashing down in a second. Dropping out of college was unexpected, so it all has to be _worth it_ in the end. It’s like he’s walking across a tightrope—one wrong step and he’ll fall, and he’s not sure there’s a net to catch him at the bottom. So he places one foot forward, making sure to keep his arms out and eyes looking forward. 

If he doesn’t—what’s the point of it all?

What’s the purpose of all he’s done up until now?

Kuroo _stares_ at him, in the way that’s searching through every cell of his body. “You don’t really get it, do you?” he finally says. “You’ve been working nonstop ever since you got your full-time position as an editor, haven’t you? And it’s a weekly series, at that.”

“But it hasn’t been long since then—”

“It doesn’t matter when,” interjects Kuroo, raising a hand. “Breaks are important. You’re going to be running on fumes when the important parts come.”

Akaashi knows he should take in Kuroo’s advice, spoken from the experience of a true office worker. Over the years, Kuroo’s job has mellowed him out, softened his edges with a sense of resignation that comes with a standard 9 to 5. He’s become less of a _pain in the ass_ and just a _pain_ now, not bothering so much to push and provoke the people around him. 

If anything, Akaashi should be glad it’s like this. 

“I’m fine,” he reiterates, checking his emails. Udai’s sent him the menu of a restaurant for a future mixer (something he was forced into going). “Really.”

But if anything, he’s not sure anymore—of what constitutes as _alright_ , where the line exists for _fine_ and _not_ _fine_ are. 

Kuroo lets out a pronounced sigh, downing some more of his beer. “That so,” is all he says, sounding like he doesn’t have the energy to continue. Akaashi’s not making it easy for him to do so either.

“But just give it some thought, won’t you?” he says a second later. Akaashi glances at him from above the top of his laptop. Kuroo’s now turned his attention to whatever’s playing on the television, not looking his way. “You’re still pretty young.”

“You’re only a year older than me.”

Kuroo clicks his tongue in annoyance. “When’d you get this cheeky? Is this the dropout attitude coming out of you now?”

And maybe Akaashi’s changed too, in this short time span. Growth doesn’t happen in a linear fashion. Sometimes it takes a lifetime to do, sometimes it can happen overnight.

“Who knows,” he replies, barely managing to hide a smile behind his screen.  
  


* * *

  
  


The mixer was a disaster.

Udai’s surprisingly sociable for a manga artist, managing to hold the conversation well. The restaurant picked out isn’t a bad one either, somewhere nearby the Shueisha building.

Everything else—

“I’m really, _really_ sorry about that,” Udai apologizes to Akaashi as the two of them are walking to the subway station, their bellies full.

“I don’t mind,” he reminds him for the umpteenth time now. “Things like that happen sometimes..”

Akaashi got bombarded with questions by practically everybody in attendance, asking him for his phone number, interests, favorites, some even boldly asking him out to future dates. He’s somewhat expected this—the few he’s attended to in the past ended in a similar manner. 

“Wow, you’re surprisingly cool about it. But I guess that says you’re also used to it, and I’m not sure how to feel about that…'' A long sigh escapes Udai’s lips. “My parents are always pushing me to get married these days, talking to me about wanting grandchildren and stuff.” He shakes his head. “I’ve gotten used to it now, but they’re really persistent about it.”

“I don’t think I’ve gotten to that age yet,” Akaashi remarks, giving a wide berth to a family passing by. Udai stops briefly in front of an art store, the sign “Uematsu Art Supply” in a dull sheen above the cramped doorway, but decides against going in. 

Udai gives him a sympathetic look, the corners of his mouth turned upwards. “You should enjoy your few years of freedom before that then. Before you know it, they’ll be asking you the same questions too.”

Being in the presence of Udai is strange too. Even though he’s five years Akaashi’s senior, the gap doesn’t feel like it exists when they’re talking. An amicable relationship, the right balance between professional and friendly, one that most manga artists and editors vy for.

“But—” Udai puts a finger underneath his chin in contemplation. “You turned down every single one of their offers, didn’t you? Wait—” he turns to Akaashi with a shocked expression. “Don’t tell me you’re actually seeing someone and didn’t tell me?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Akaashi replies quickly. “I wouldn’t have gone today if that was the case.”

“Oh, that‘s true. Then, you have somebody you like?”

Still, it’s not like their relationship comes without troubles. Dodging Udai’s question is, in theory, easier than dodging Kuroo’s. He’s not asking it with some ulterior motive brewing in his mind either. But it comes so _unpredictable_ , unforeseen, out of the blue, Akaashi doesn’t have the time to formulate a good response.

“Something like that,” Akaashi says quietly, just barely above the clamor of the intersection they walk across.

Udai’s mouth gapes open for a bit before he regains his composure. “Sorry, sorry!” His cheeks flush a bit in embarrassment. “You should’ve told me that beforehand. Would’ve saved you from all of that mess.”

“We’re not—I mean, it’s not like she knows, I haven’t told her or anything, so—” he stammers out, realizing he’s sounding more incoherent with each word falling clumsily from his mouth. “Er, I didn’t mind.”

He can feel Udai’s gaze piercing at his side, but Akaashi doesn’t dare to look at him, in fear that what he _really_ wants to say will come tumbling out in an uncontrollable manner. As each passing silence goes by, the tension in the air grows. Akaashi swallows thickly in anticipation, bracing himself for the worst.

“And you’re fine with that?” Udai asks. It’s a genuine question, laced with a simpleness that makes what’s asked easy to answer. 

Or at least, _should be_ easy. But, as Akaashi’s learned, things in life are never quite that simple to him, never something he can predict. He’s about to say _it’s alright_ again, but he stops himself before he does.

Is it?

Wasn’t he just running away from the truth by saying _everything’s fine_?

Except—

“I don’t mind,” he decides to settle on, his throat uncomfortably dry. 

He doesn’t know what else to say. At a loss for words, not even sure what he wants to say in the first place. Not sure what makes sense at this point.

(but a part deep down inside chides him, saying _yes, you do._ )

Udai turns away with a hum, seemingly catching the gist of what he’s trying to get at. “Ah, the drafts are due today, aren’t they?” He hunches over slightly, a darkened expression forming on his face.

“Yes, they are,” Akaashi says, and he’s glad for the switch in the conversation. “I would strongly advise you to not get them to me barely on time like before.”

“I know, I know,” groans Udai, massaging his forehead. “I’ll probably have these done sooner…”

“That’s what you said the last time as well.”

“You didn’t have to remind me!”

"I think it's my job to do so."

They reach the subway station and walk down the long flight of steps, their footsteps mingling with the rest of the crowd. 

“Well, I’ll let you know if anything comes up,” Udai says as they reach the bottom of the stairwell.

“Thank you for inviting me today,” Akaashi says with a slight bow. “I appreciate it.”

Udai waves his hand. “Don’t mind it. Then, see you later.” He walks off to where his train is, blending in with the crowd. Akaashi walks to where the platform for his train is and stands in wait.

_Yeah, it’s fine like this._   
  


* * *

  
  


He’s waiting.

Each night, Akaashi stays up until it’s physically impossible for him to do so.

Waiting for your call.

A part of him says the whole thing’s flat out dumb, that he shouldn’t be doing this.

Waiting for you.

But another part of him tells him, _it’s the only thing you can do_. 

So he continues to wait each night, his phone right next to his futon. Tonight, Kuroo’s crashed at Kenma’s so he has the whole apartment to himself. Akaashi stares at the ceiling, his fingers absentmindedly tapping on the wooden floor.

The thought that he should call you crossed his mind, but there’s a chance you might be asleep, so he doesn’t want to disturb you. He’s not even sure what to ask you anyways. There’s a chance that you’ve already booked a train to Nagoya.

It’s ironic—you called him without care to his sleep schedule. so why should he give yours a thought?

(well. it’s easy to answer, he thinks, since there’s only one reason why.)

He waits, until the clock turns 5 AM. There’s no chance left for you to call him.

Akaashi closes his eyes with a sigh that goes unheard in the night. His fingers stop their tapping. 

In the thick silence of Kuroo’s apartment—

 _This isn’t alright_ , Akaashi thinks distantly, as he falls asleep.  
  


* * *

  
  


(Here’s a fragment from middle school, back when things still made sense:

“Oi, Keiji-kun,” you half-whispered, half-yelled to him from your window. “D’you think you can sneak outta your house right now?”

Akaashi furrowed his brows, unsure of where this conversation was going. “And exactly why should I do that?”

“Because you’re bored and want to go somewhere right now?”

“But I’m not.”

“Aw,” you pouted. “C’mon! I promise it won’t take that long! It’ll be fun too!”

So that’s how he found himself with you watching the fireworks on the bank of the Sumida River. Constant crackling and explosions fill his ears, accompanied by the bursts of light and color against a dark sky. They spring to life with brilliance and fizzle out as just as quickly, falling down like meteors.

“Couldn’t we have come here with our parents?” he asked, covering his ears slightly.

“Where’s the fun in that? It’s better to sneak out!” There’s an unmistakable look of awe on your face as he turned to look at you. Unconsciously, he’s smiling at your expressions, each lit up with the dazzling array of colors.

Only until the finale did Akaashi pry himself away from your face and look back to the sky, the popping noises reaching a climax and the vibrant blooms scattered all over the night.

“Hey, Keiji-kun,” you said during the midst of it, your voice barely heard over the loudness. “We’re gonna be best friends forever, aren’t we?”

Truthfully, he knew why you wanted to go out tonight—you’re moving back to Hokkaido tomorrow. 

“Yeah, we are,” Akaashi replied, like nothing’s going to change even if he doesn’t see you for a long, long time.

And he’s not sure who did it first, but your fingers intertwined with each other’s, palms warm from the summer heat. You squeezed his hand and something in his chest pounded just a bit louder. 

_You’re still right here,_ he thought distantly as the last sparks fell down, _but why do you already feel so far away?_ )  
  


* * *

  
  


Sitting in the sports arena washes a wave of nostalgia over Akaashi, bringing back memories of the Spring Interhigh when he was still in high school. As he’s watching the game, he can’t help but remember all of his past games with Bokuto. There used to be a time when he stood on the court with his team, focused only on the path ahead of them. How Bokuto said he was going to become “an ordinary ace” at the end of it all, and Akaashi’s still not entirely sure what he meant by that.

Looking back, those times feel so _simple_ now. Victory was all they ever wanted.

Bokuto’s spike crashing onto the court jolts Akaashi back to the present and a roar of “Bokuto Beam!” from the crowd follows. Bokuto gives the Miya setter a high five with a whoop and Akaashi can’t help but smile.

People once asked him why he didn’t continue volleyball in college. With ease, he could’ve been on a Division Three, maybe even Two team. He’s gotten offers from a couple too. Akaashi cited the need for change, the need for something different in his life.

But truthfully, Akaashi just felt it appropriate to close out that chapter. He’s played his heart out on the high school courts with his team, and that was more than enough. 

Besides—

“Nice serve, Bo!”

He’s free from the burdens of expectations, of what he should and shouldn’t do, as a spectator. All he has to do is watch.

This, he’s certain he’s fine with.

Some time later, the game ends with the Black Jackals’ victory and the team crashes into each other with hugs and cheers. The roaring of the crowd thunders in his ears, dictating the pace of his heart. Akaashi stands up with his own cheers, clapping his hands. On the opposite side, the Green Rockets have an air of defeat surrounding them, fatigue lining their faces, bodies drooping with weariness. Akaashi knows that feeling all too well.

After the interviews, the crowd begins to slowly thin out of the arena. Akaashi checks his phone for any messages. Tomokazu left him a voicemail, informing him about an upcoming book-signing event. They wanted to give out some gifts during it in hopes to bolster Zomb’ish’s success some more. He scrolls through the pictures Tomokazu sent, each with different designs for T-shirts, mugs, and other paraphernalia alike.

Then out of nowhere, he hears your name yelled out. 

_When do you become sick of the bare minimum?_

Akaashi looks up from his phone, seeing Bokuto crash into you with a giant hug. Kuroo’s right behind him with a fond look on his face. 

_When do you start wanting more than that?_

You’re talking with the two of them like you fit right in. Like you’ve known them for a long, long while now, like you weren’t just grumbling to him about Bokuto just some months back.

And you look _happy_.

 _Can somebody like him, who exists on the outskirts of some far-off galaxy, even_ wish _for more?_

You walk down the steps and across the court, Bokuto right next to you, Kuroo behind the two of you. He opens the door leading out to the lobby for you in a grand gesture and you follow through, despite the roll of your eyes. The door closes with a solid _thud_. There’s still people scattered around, but Akaashi doesn’t hear anything.

His hands clench into fists.

This time, they don't release in an instant.

_And you’re fine with that?_

Akaashi always does things methodically. If he’s taking a not-so-normal route in life, there should at least be some sort of stability in it. If he’s dropping out, he needs to find a place to stay just as quickly. If he’s breaking into adulthood, he’ll follow the manual to the best of his ability.

But when is there ever a _method_ in life? What is proper, when there’s always an unexpected in life?

He’s convinced himself he’s fine with this. That you don’t need to know how he’s feeling, because it keeps things easier like that. He doesn’t want to lose a friendship by professing his emotions which he knows won’t go well.

It’s not worth the risk.

But at the same time—

Can something like _this_ even be considered friendship anymore?

The words he wants to say threaten to spill forth from his mouth. It’s all he does to hold them back, and he’s not sure how long his barrier can hold up. In an ideal world, Akaashi’s certain he would’ve already told you he loved you. Maybe if he did, his situation _right now_ would be very different.

But the world is never one to give him ideals. There’s never a 100% certainty in anything. Truthfully, it’s probably better like that. Sometimes, you just have to jump headfirst into the unknown and pray it’ll somehow work out in the end.

Because what else are you supposed to do?  
  


* * *

  
  


“Hey.”

It’s 4:02 AM.

“Keiji-kun. This is a surprise.”

Though you don’t sound very surprised.

“I think it’s only fair I do something like this,” he replies. “Calls go two ways, as you’ve said before.”

“Well—” you chuckle lightly. “I suppose you’re not wrong there.”

“Are you in your apartment right now?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah. What’s up?”

“I don’t want to trouble you, but would you mind if I come over? I can bring snacks if you want.”

He’s actually already there, standing right outside of Bokuto’s door after the “very last party, ever” just finished, ears still ringing from the loud music that they were bound to get a couple complaints for.

“Mm.” Only a second passes by, but it feels like eternity and some more does while he waits for your answer, blood pounding in his ears. “Sure,” you finally say.

Akaashi lets out an inward sigh of relief. “Is there anything you want? I’ll go to Lawson’s now.”

“Uh—” you pause again, this time without the eternity attached. “Some onigiri sound nice.”

“Alright. See you later then.”

He hangs up. It’s the shortest call yet, but the rest of it continues later. Akaashi walks over to the elevator and presses the down button, waiting for the doors to open.  
  


* * *

  
  


(Here’s an almost-forgotten moment from winter break:

The two of you are at a bakery, stopped in front of the cakes section. It’s about to close and only a couple customers are still milling around the displays. Soft piano music (some rendition of an old Christmas song) plays in the background. You’re inspecting the rows of colorfully-decorated pastries behind the cold cases, Akaashi right behind you.

“Hey, if I made a cake, would you eat it?” you ask, eyes swivelling back and forth between two, each with some sort of Christmas decoration placed in the frosting. Truthfully, he’s not sure what the difference between each cake is, which is why he lets you pick them out.

“Maybe a slice,” he says. You’re not terrible at cooking, that he knows, but he’s not sure about your baking skills.

Your expression turns sour, and he realizes maybe that wasn’t the answer you’re looking for. “Two then,” he supplies. “I’m not a fan of sweet things to begin with.”

You blow a raspberry at him. “Whatever. Let’s go with this one,” you say, pointing to a cake topped with strawberries coat in sugar and a small, smiling Santa placed on a dollop of white frosting. “I want to eat Santa.”

“Please don’t say such scary things. What about the kids?”

“Bleh.”

He rolls his eyes, though there’s a wry smile on his face. “I’ll save Santa for you then.”

The two of you pay for the cake and walk outside, greeted by the cold night air. Akaashi pulls his coat in a bit closer. Your breaths make puffs of white smoke against the dark sky. The walk’s silent until the two of you reach his parents’ house, drop off the cake in the fridge with little difficulty, and go to the second floor.

“This is the last time I’ll be staying over, I think,” you announce, leaning by the door frame as he sits at his desk. "It's been a good couple years."

He blinks, unsure of how to process this. “We’ll miss you," is all that comes out. 

Something in his chest aches a bit. All things come to end. And even though he knows this day would come, he wishes it wouldn’t happen so soon. 

(then again—even if you said that a year, five, ten years from now, he probably would still feel the same.)

“Yeah. Same here. Well, night,” you reply with a wave of your hand, as you’ve always been good at brushing things off.

“Good night,” he says, and maybe he should get better at that too.)

* * *

  
  


Tokyo at 4 in the morning is peacefully silent.

it’s the only expected thing that’s come out of this whole situation as he’s walking back to your apartment. In his hand is a plastic bag from the convenience store. 

There’s a whole laundry list of problems with just doing something _like this_. A confession at 4 AM is most _certainly_ not methodical, no matter how you look at it. 

But for once, his mind is oddly clear.  
  


* * *

  
  


It’s quiet.

The two of you are sprawled across your too-small couch, signs of tears covering the surface. The air conditioner hums softly, but he doesn’t feel cold next to you.

Still, this isn’t a comfortable type of quiet—the air’s just a bit too stifling for this to feel natural. Or maybe that’s just his imagination.

“So? To what do I owe the pleasure to this to my humble abode?” you say, legs propped up against the table. “I’ve been told it’s not very homely, so I’m sure you’re not here just to check it out.”

He’s not as relaxed as you are (who could be, when his heart’s about to burst forth from his chest?) so he’s sitting upright on the couch. “I told my parents. About dropping out of college,” he begins.

“Oh? How’d that go?”

He leans back against the cushions, attempting to relax. “Not the best. I think they got around to it in the end though. They agreed to be my guarantor.”

“Wow. You got a place already?”

“Yes, it’s somewhere just outside of Shibuya,” he answers, taking an onigiri from the bag and unwrapping it. It’s not his favorite flavor, but he continues to eat it anyway.

You crack open a can of beer. “You sure you’re gonna be alright living alone? It’s harder than it looks, you know.”

“Who knows,” he replies. 

Here’s what he does know:

There’s special words that can be said only during the hour between the last train to leave and the first one to arrive. Akaashi’s always been insufferably ineloquent when it mattered most, so he doesn’t know how to make them _special_.

And without _thinking_ , without focusing on what he knows and what he doesn’t know (because in the end, did any of that matter? when the conclusion’s still going to be the same), he announces, with the grace of the ugly duckling—

“I like you,” he says, gaze still focused on the onigiri in his hands.

A beat later: “A lot.”

Seconds, like eternities, pass by again. “What,” is your only response.

He knows—this one’s unexpected. Unpredicted. Unforeseen. Unanticipated. _Out of the blue_. The blank look on your face is all he needs to tell. But you don’t change your position, being relaxed as ever. Four AM isn’t the best time to do this, but he doesn’t think he can wait anymore, not when what he’s feeling is about to choke him.

“I think it was when you told me you were going to become the best artist you ever could be,” Akaashi confesses. He steals a glance at you, trying to read whatever he can glean from your expression, but it’s unreadable tonight. “I was aware of this only until recently though.”

“Wait. That far back?”

He wants to laugh at how _that’s_ the first thing you pick up on, but he stifles it. “Yes, that far back. Or at least, that was the first time I was aware of how I felt towards you,” he continues. More words falling from his lips that his heart beats wildly at. “Back then, I didn’t really know what I wanted to do. So hearing you say those words were a sort of inspiration to me.” 

What was it like, to be on fire with a burning passion? He had so desperately searched for that answer. At eleven, when you were thirteen, he couldn’t formulate how you were already so set on what you wanted to do.

At twenty-one now, when you’re twenty-three, and things still haven’t changed much since then. You streaked past like a rocket, to a destination he doesn’t know where. He can only watch you go, as a star amongst millions.

Akaashi’s always been chasing after backs. Your small frame, perpetually hunched over in middle school. Bokuto’s broad one in high school, always looking in the future. Backs that paved the way for new sights to see, for new worlds to explore.

Now, it seems like he’s chasing after both of yours, simultaneously, and yet not at all at the same time. 

On second thought—he’s finally standing shoulder-to-shoulder with you two.

(the third—that’s still a little too presumptuous to say, so maybe he’s just a couple paces behind.)

When he saw you again, six years later, he thought everything would pick up exactly as they left off from that night on the Sumida riverbank. Six years was a speck of time in comparison to forever.

But as times change, people change too. The world’s always in motion.

Forever doesn’t exist.

And _this_ was no different.

If he’s being dead honest—

“‘ _And then it came to me then. That we were wonderful travelling companions, but in the end no more than lonely lumps of metal on their own separate orbits_ ,’” he recites with a deep breath. He’s not sure if he’s talking to himself or you right now.

“Who said that?”

“That’s a quote by Murakami, but I know you don’t read, so saying that doesn’t help.” Your lips part open slightly, as if about to say something, but you decide to close them. From the tabletop, your knees pull inwards into your body as you wait for him to continue.

“I think it describes us well. When we happen to cross paths, we can be together, even share our hearts to each other, just like we’re doing now, but it’ll only last for a moment.” Nothing’s making any sense anymore, but it doesn’t matter either. Akaashi draws in a ragged breath, shoulders rising (desperation) and falling (acceptance). “Because in the end, our paths will be separate from each other. We’ll always be running parallel from each other. I’m not like you at all.”

Your eyes finally meet his with an infinitesimal shift of your head.

In those hues swirling with something like confusion and understanding all the same—Akaashi learns a couple things.

 _One_ , your eyes are very pretty up close, even without fireworks or a sunset lighting them up.

 _Two_ , that even at this distance, just some centimeters away from touching you, you’re still oceans away from him.

“First off, I’m well aware of Murakami! The flower guy! What a great guy!” you begin with a grand gesture from your hands. “Didn’t know he wrote too! And aren’t you going to be great in your future too?” You take a long gulp from your beer. “I can already see ‘Future Head Editor of Shueisha’ on your face.”

You’re trying hard for his sake. It reminded him of a certain ace.

 _Too_ hard, maybe.

“That’s the wrong Murakami. I’m glad you think of me so highly, but—” he shakes his head. “It just wouldn’t work out between the two of us.”

A scoff escapes your lips. “Who decides that?”

“That’s obvious, isn’t it? Because you don’t feel the same way.”

And _three_ , Akaashi Keiji learns you don’t reciprocate his love.

Somewhere down the line, falling in love with you just made sense to him. Days, weeks, _months_ pass by without Akaashi seeing your face or hearing your voice. Sometimes, his convictions waver. Doubts that maybe he doesn’t love you, maybe he’s just overreacting creep into his mind. 

All it takes is a single call to dispel them. Like you’re telling him _hey, let’s not focus on the hard stuff right now_ when you’re talking with him over the phone, rambling away about things that’ll be forgotten once the sun rose.

But even if you made him forget about his worries, they still exist in the back of his mind. That you didn’t love him back—that _you never did_ , _you never will_ is always nagging at him. 

And who’d be alright with something like that?

Who’s happy with something like that?

Deep down, he knows why his past relationships ended the same—he was never in love with them in the first place.

It’s ironic, isn’t it?

Strangely, it feels more like a release rather than a sorrow. Sure, there’s a dull pain in his chest, aching with the existence of a large hole. A hole that can’t be so easily filled by anything.

But truthfully, he already knew this from a long time ago—

The person he loves doesn’t love him back. 

Your head rolls back as you stare at the ceiling, at a loss for words.

You knew, too.

When the two of you met again—or was it a reunion? _Met again_ sounds too casual for childhood friends. _Reunion_ sounds more for lovers. Either way, whatever it was, it happened too late. 

Years too late.

Your hand swirls the can of beer, now half empty. There’s a word, you think, for whatever the two of you are, but words were never your forte. And it’s not the words that mattered anymore.

Somewhere deep down, there’s still something there for him too.

But it’s not enough.

Not anymore.

Maybe if circumstances were different, this outcome wouldn’t have happened. If you met Akaashi just a couple years earlier. If you lived closer to him.

(if you didn’t meet Bokuto, a voice says.)

But twenty-three now, and the past has all but faded in your mind. There’s a history woven tightly between the two of you, each thread pulled tautly, but it’s all with memories. Memories that all can be burned with a single flame. Every last drop from a time long gone.

Twenty-three now and comfort came to you not from the past, nor the uncertainty of ifs, but from focusing on _today_.

And Akaashi Keiji doesn’t exist in this today.

He exists in the hours too early in the morning. In the couple days over winter break. In the fleeting moments you met up with him outside of that. Dregs of a friendship, a pale comparison to the past. Thinking that nothing’s changed from then and now, pretending everything was alright—

All just pretense.

Somewhere down the line, you and Akaashi simply fell apart.

Too much time had passed—just like how oil paint eventually cracks and ages, things like this have no remedy, no solution. That’s the thing about love that everybody hates—completely unpredictable. Fluctuating back and forth. Some days it’s overbearing. Other days it barely exists. Maybe at one point in your life, you did love him.

You wanted to reciprocate Akaashi’s feelings. Deeply, truly. It pained your chest thinking about it. But you can’t force yourself to love someone. Love is irrational, senseless, conflicting. 

(unexpected, even. happens out of nowhere sometimes, and the only thing you’re left to do is accept that it’s there.)

Akaashi deserves somebody who wasn’t a mess. Somebody who wouldn’t wreck his sleep schedule out of nowhere—

And didn’t even love him back.

“What do we do now?” you ask, meeting his eyes again. Dark blue eyes, almost black in the dim light, now swirling with a gentleness and fragility you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. 

Then again, maybe you never bothered to pay attention to them closely enough.

“It’s simple. I fall out of love with you,” he says with the faintest of smiles, tired yet gentle all the same.

You want to laugh at how absurd that sounds, but it comes out as a strangled chuckle. “Didn’t know that’s how that works,” you say, taking another sip of your beer.

Akaashi shrugs, his fingers curling around his onigiri. “Probably not, honestly. But it’s not like I can control how you feel or what you do.”

“So you can control love?”

“No,” he answers all too quickly. “But it’s the only thing I can do here.”

A silence follows as you look away from him, your eyes vaguely focusing on the canvases lining the walls. There’s no more words to be said, but there doesn’t need to be any.

On second thought—

Your head falls onto his shoulder, your face buried into his shirt.

“Sorry,” you mumble out against the fabric. You’re not sure if it’s the right thing to apologize to him, for being a bad friend after all these years. “This isn’t fair to you at all.”

You feel his chest rise and fall with a steady pulse. “Don’t be,” he says gently.

A moment later—“I won’t mind if you still called me at 4.”

You shake your head slightly, still not moving from your position. “No, I shouldn’t do that anymore. Pick up for somebody that actually cares. About you.”

He lived only a couple subway stations away. If you really wanted to talk to him, you could’ve done so easily.

 _Only the weird ones_. _Up to no good._

All of that was just a glossed-over way of saying the _lonely ones_.

Because your calls were just a cure for loneliness at a time too late, too early in the morning.

You wanted to know that you weren’t alone. 

And how ironic is that, when you’ve learned to take comfort in solitude?

“What about… the whole pact thing?” you whisper, your body slouching further into his. For somebody so blunt as Akaashi, he’s strangely warm to the touch.

“That…” his voice trails off. “We should probably give up on that, shouldn’t we?”

“You sure?”

Akaashi nods, though there’s a glisten in his eyes a bit too bright to be normal. “We should leave that in the past,” he says, trying his best to pull himself together. “It would just give me false hope.”

And even now, when you’re so close to him, you still feel alone. As if there’s an infinity separating the two of you, no matter the distance. 

Always reaching out. Never touching.

Something like this could never work out.

There’s another long moment of silence that follows, until—

“Hey. Look outside,” Akaashi murmurs, nudging you gently. “The sunrise.” 

You pull yourself up from his shoulder and look to the balcony door. Sure enough, beyond the various rises of the buildings, there’s smudges of coral and orange at the horizon line warming up the deep blue sky.

Telling both of you that it’s a new _today_.

A smile forms on your lips. “You finally got to see it.”

“Indeed.” He smiles as well. It’s a bit bittersweet. “Inevitably.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


A couple weeks later, Akaashi finally gets the keys to his new apartment. It’s in a small, five-storied complex right next to a shopping plaza. He walks up the couple flights of stairs with his suitcase in hand, rolling behind him. Akaashi stops in front of door 305, turns the key into the lock, and opens the door.

“I’m home,” he says quietly, but there’s no one here. Nobody on the couch, eating leftovers. No drone of the television playing in the background.

Nobody responds back.

He’s (finally, truly, expectedly, inevitably) alone now.

Akaashi’s hand releases its grip on his suitcase, falling limply to his side.

_It’s too quiet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays... stay safe out there


	20. roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You like Bokuto, don’t you?”
> 
> You blink.
> 
> “Are you stupid?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **tw** | minor talk of death present in the latter half of chapter.

“Well, this is it.”

“This is it,” you chime in affirmation. “Don’t forget me in Italy.”

“As if I can.” Tachibana rolls her eyes. “I’ll call you at ungodly hours every now and then. Get ready.”

“I’ll go hunt you down there myself if you do that.”

“Do you even have money for a plane ticket?”

“Are you underestimating me?”

“Who knows.”

“Tachibana.”

“Sacchi.”

The two of you are standing at the check-in area of the airport. In the background, people of all sorts are wandering around, some with backpacks, some with suitcases. Blue banners with _Fly to the world_ printed on it are hanging from the ceiling.

“I’ll miss you,” you say. “Really.”

Tachibana covers her mouth with a hand, faking a cry. “I can’t believe you actually said that.”

“Want me to take it back?”

“No, I’m very grateful for your words.” She bows a little. “I am honored to receive them.”

You sigh in response, electing to ignore the snideness in her remark. “I really didn’t think you’d leave this quickly. In the first place, didn’t you say early summer? It’s still May right now.”

The natural light coming from the windows bounces off her crystal earrings as she shrugs. “Does it really make a difference? Tickets were cheapest on this date. Don’t really have any other obligations here, anyways.”

“You’re definitely just avoiding Ando and Sakamoto’s wedding.”

“OK, maybe I am,” Tachibana admits with a huff, crossing her arms. “I’m still not really in the mood to see any lovey-dovey couples right now.”

“So you avoid it by going to Italy. Makes sense.”

Overhead, the announcement of a plane’s departure plays out. Her face sours. “Do you have any other suggestions?”

“Guess not. I mean, you’re going to Italy. That’s objectively cooler than a wedding, I think.”

If there’s such a thing as _talent_ in the world, Tachibana has it in oodles. There’s sparks of something like jealousy stirring for her, inside you. Who wouldn’t be? It’s like the world shined a spotlight on Tachibana just for her to dance the moment she was born. If your works had something special to them, hers possess an otherworldly quality.

You just don’t have that extra smidge of something special.

Still, sparks are only sparks. Europe, or anywhere else overseas, isn’t a necessity for your path either. 

Tachibana checks her phone. “Still good on time… hey, I’ve been wondering about this for a while now,” she begins, fiddling with the Hello Kitty keychain on her suitcase.

“What’s up?”

Without any warning—

“You like Bokuto, don’t you?”

You blink.

“Are you stupid?”

“You heard me the first time.”

You blink again, still not processing her question. “First off, how do you know his name? Second off, what?”

“It’s a long story…” She twirls a strand of hair absentmindedly. The gray color has now faded out to an ashy blond. “Basically, at the exhibition he came over to my show and asked about you.”

“What’d you say.”

“Secret.” There’s a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “I’m not even supposed to be telling you any of this right now. But you ran away during your exhibition to talk to him, right? So do you like him?”

A beat of silence passes before you give your response.

“What if I do,” you decide to say.

“You’re stupid, for sure. It’s a yes or no question, not a _what if I do?_ ” she declares, like she’s giving you a lecture. You swear a couple heads turn your way. “I have no idea what happened between the two of you before then and I don’t know him that well either, but I can _definitely_ tell you, something like what you did isn’t normal for you. You’re not the type to run away from something like a show. Money’s too important for you to do that. So, do you?”

It’d be a lie if you said the prospect of being _in a relationship_ with Bokuto didn’t float by in your mind once in a while. His existence encompasses every exception in your life. Like he breaks all the rules you set out, and then some more. Everything happened so naturally, so quickly, as if it’s meant to be.

It’s scary, too much so. 

But you’re not sure if that’s what you even deserve. Happiness comes from stability. There’s nothing stable in the life of an artist. Things like _relationships,_ like _love_ , they’re all just a bit too far out of reach. Those were for the people who can hang onto the promise of forever.

To you, forever doesn’t exist.

“You care about this, why?” you ask, weakly attempting to dodge the more pressing question matter on hand.

“Because I care about you, duh,” Tachibana replies, sighing. “Knowing you, you’re probably going off in your mind that you don’t deserve something like love or a relationship.”

Your mouth drops open.

“Oh, I was right?”

“Well—I mean—” with vague hand gestures, you try to formulate a response. “Honestly, I don’t really know if I like him or not. Even if I did, what then? It’s like you said. I don’t need to deal with something like a relationship on my plate.”

The events of that night ago, back in April, come to you in flashes. It almost feels like a dream on some days with how late it was, a fragment formed from your subconsciousness. But with the zero outgoing calls to Akaashi in your phone log recently, you know it wasn’t.

It’s not that you disliked him. But going out with him, when his feelings outweighed yours by too much to measure, when you’re not even sure if you can do something like _commit_ , wouldn’t be fair for either party.

His request that night was to give him some space, which you obliged—and it’s probably for the better for both of you like this.

“We didn’t call it a relationship,” Tachibana begins, cutting off your train of thought, her voice oddly quiet.

“Huh?”

“Me and Minari. Remember? Everybody said we were exclusive in everything but name. That’s because we didn’t actually call it anything.”

“This relates, how?”

“I’m getting there, slow down.” Tachibana takes in a breath. “Look at us now, we don’t even talk anymore. Things are gonna change, maybe in a day, maybe in some years from now. _Forever_ doesn’t exist for us, that’s as clear as day.

“But—” her gaze hardens as she turns to face you. “Everybody deserves to love and be loved. This isn’t something that changes. For people like us, who live from art to art—what’s important right now is today, isn’t it? We have to find what makes us happy in the moment to hold onto. Or else we don’t have anything left.”

You stay silent.

“So now to why I asked you, if you liked him or not. If you do, tell him. There’s no harm in trying. I’m not even saying the two of you have to be in a relationship or whatever. Isn’t it enough to love someone?”

“But—” There’s a strange vulnerability in your tone, coming out like a strangled noise. You clear your throat to get rid of it. “Well, what if he doesn’t like me? And like I said, I still don’t know—”

“You’re kidding. If you’re asking something like that, you already know. And don’t worry about that. I’ve a pretty strong feeling he does.”

You let her words sink into the bustling airport atmosphere. Somewhere around here, your grandfather’s paintings are exhibited.

“Hey. You think we could’ve ever dated?” You’re not entirely sure what answer you want—or whether you’re even looking for one.

She laughs, maybe not entirely at the question. “Isn’t it kind of late asking something like that?”

“Everything seems to be so these days,” you remark offhandedly.

“Probably.” Tachibana checks the time again. “Well, I should get going now then. It’d be kind of embarrassing if I missed my flight. Don’t wanna be late for that.”

Too late and too quickly. You’re not sure when you’d see Tachibana again. Sugawara went far away, but she’s going even further. 

“That it would. Take care, alright?” Your hand raises in farewell.

Still, you don’t think she’s somebody you’d forget any time soon.

The next words almost choke in your throat. “See you—someday, then. Somewhere.”

“Yeah.” Tachibana smiles back, the kind that’s trying to hold herself together with the last bits of strength. “See you someday.”  
  


* * *

  
  


It’s a remarkably warm day in Kyoto, one that signalled the next change of seasons. Tomorrow, the 12th of May, a _taian_ —good luck all day—is more than perfect for a wedding. After a three-hour train ride to the city and arriving at the temple for Ando and Sakamoto’s wedding—

“I’m exhausted,” you groan, your head buried in the blanket of the bed.

“The wedding hasn’t even started yet,” Azumane reminds you gently, unpacking his clothes. “What’re you going to do then?”

With the guest rooms being double-occupancy only, you offered to share a room with him. It’s a cramped one, the walls painted dark red (which you’re not sure if it’s quite fitting for a temple). The air conditioner is thankfully functioning, the cool air blowing from it flaps the translucent window curtains pushed to the side. 

“Uh. Die?” you offer, still not rising from your spot.

“I don’t think this temple wants to deal with a wedding and funeral ceremony on the same day.” With care, he sets a dark suit out on the bed next to yours, brushing it down slightly.

“Give me a break…” The softness of the bed makes you want to merge with it. Or maybe you already are. “Maybe I should’ve gone off with Tachibana in Italy and escape off the map. She was right to miss this…”

“Was it really that bad for you?” You hear the sound of a zipper closing a suitcase. “Tokyo to Nagoya was even longer, isn’t it?”

Your head finally tilts up to meet Azumane and you blink away the sleep threatening to take over your body. “I’ve already spent over 35 thousand yen for traveling alone these past two months,” you sulk. “My wallet is crying right now.”

“Ah, that so…” His voice trails off with unease. “What are you going to do later today?”

“Have you no sympathy for your friend?”

“Did you want me to lend you some money?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

You peel yourself up from your bed and get to unpacking your suitcase. “Camaraderie is in times of trouble, not in happiness—isn’t that something people say?”

“I think this is just your personal problem.”

“Well! Anyways!” You hold up your own formal wear for the wedding, slightly ruffled from being folded haphazardly. It’s a modest dress that goes down to your knees, something you bought with the help of Tachibana. “We’re in Ukyo right now, right? What’s around here?”

“More temples,” Azumane answers, a serious glint in his eye. “I checked the map on the bullet train.”

“I see… Not surprised at all…” You toss your makeup pouch and a casual outfit onto the bed with a slight sigh. “What are you going to do?”

“They offer Zen meditation classes here, I think I’m going to check those out,” he says, the sound of running water from the faucet in the background. “Nice way to destress, probably.”

“Meditation, huh? It suits you.”

“You can join too, if you want.” The water shuts off and Azumane comes out of the bathroom, shaking the last water droplets from his hands. “We get a discount since we’re guests.”

“I’ll pass.” You stand up too, sliding open the closet door to put away your dress. “Not really in the mood to sit around for another couple hours after the train.”

After the unpacking’s done, you exit the small room, greeting a couple of your classmates on your way out of the guest house and step foot onto the grounds of the temple. There’s nothing particularly special about it, with its greenery sprouting from every corner of the old building. A couple people are strolling by, their murmurs of conversations barely distinct in your ears. In one of the temple rooms, a tea ceremony class is in session, the master’s movements delicate and with purpose as they demonstrate the proper method of pouring tea to the students, watching their every action.

_But it’s really peaceful._

You look at the blue sky above, streaks of clouds running by.

_What would you say about this place?_   
  


* * *

  
  


You ended up visiting the hotel where the artist residency that Nanase recommended to you, as it’s a 20 minute ride away from the temple. Located on some corner of a quiet street, it’s a cozy hotel providing moderate comfort. Not too bad to stay for four months.

After eating dinner in a nearby restaurant with Azumane and a couple other classmates, you start your walk back to the guest house of the inn with him, the both of you slightly inebriated. Save for the few lanterns hanging from storefronts giving off a warm glow, the windy curves of the small street are hard to navigate in the dark. 

“Still can’t believe those two were able to get a location so close after the proposal,” you yawn, feeling a tad too warm from the beer.

“I heard they did all the planning beforehand, actually proposing was the final part to it,” Azumane says, his ears tinged red at the tips.

“Those two are a mess in everything except each other, huh? Must be nice.”

“That it seems.” A faint smile curves his lips. “By the way, why didn’t you come here with Bokuto-senshu?”

“Ah… He had practice today, I think. For the National team and all, didn’t want to bother him.”

“Practice even on the weekends? Wow…” Azumane’s voice takes on a distant tone. “I thought our practice in high school was pretty rigorous, but pros are definitely on another level.”

“I forgot you played too—did you not wanna go pro?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not really suited for any of that… it never really crossed my mind as a viable option to do. Our team was mostly supported by my underclassmen, they were really on a different level…”

“What, weren’t you the ace or something? Where’s your confidence?” you tease with a slight chuckle.

“Ah, I’m not saying we were worse than them or anything,” he stammers, the red now spreading to his cheeks. “We put up our fight too! But going pro…” Azumane’s expression turns nostalgic. “I think you need a serious love for the sport. Bokuto-senshu and my underclassmen had that. I don’t think I do anymore.”

“I think he said something like that too when we went to Chichibu,” you mutter, trying to recall the words. “Something about how it’s his life, so he’ll play for as long as he can.”

“Chichibu? What was that for?”

“Oh. Uh, a very late spring break visit since neither of us wanted to see the cherry blossoms.”

Azumane frowns in thought. “That’s pretty unexpected, coming from you.”

“That’s just—” Your gaze travels up to the dark sky, where faint specks of light twinkle in the distance.

What are you even supposed to say? _His insistence? Me needing a break?_

_Our friendship?_

“Who we are,” you conclude, because you’ve always made the silliest of exceptions for Bokuto.

Azumane hums in response. He stops in his tracks, examining the surroundings with a dazed look. “Wait, are we going in circles?”

“...I’ve been relying on you to get us back.”  
  


* * *

  
  


The wedding day comes and goes without much trouble. Ando and Sakamoto, wearing dark kimonos, exchange their vows before the priest. Speeches and toasts are given with teary eyes and bright smiles. The after party is held in some nearby izakaya, where people are currently mingling and dancing, constant music playing in the background. Currently, the lazy strumming of a guitar is playing out.

With a flute of champagne and a pleasant smile plastered on your face—

_You’d like this song, I think._   
  


* * *

  
  


“It is a pretty good song! Kind of slow, but still pretty nice!” Bokuto says, his hands placed on your shoulders. 

“Something about a late 90s anime OST influenced by Western music played at a Zen Buddhist wedding afterparty is very postmodern.”

“I understood all of those words separately, but not in a sentence!”

“Sorry, sorry,” you laugh. Your hands are also on his shoulders, the two of you swaying to the song on your balcony. The air’s much warmer now, a stark contrast to when Sugawara came over. “I’m surprised you aren’t tired though.”

“This is nothing!” He gives you a big grin of assurance. “I wouldn’t dare turn down a spontaneous dance with my pretty neighbor!”

“Even while being slightly drunk?”

“ _Especially_ while being slightly drunk.”

The more you try to not focus on what Tachibana told you at the airport, the more it makes itself known in the back of your mind. Telling you _hey, wouldn’t right now be a good time?_ and it’s all you do to push it away, because you’re still unsure over the whole situation. Nobody deserves an ambiguous answer; one that’s half-baked and comes like a punch from nowhere.

(still—you’re not even sure _when_ you know you like, really like, _love_ someone. the lines that defined friendship and romance, when you don’t even know what defined friendship and acquaintanceship to begin with, seem too out of reach.)

“I’ve got a three-day weekend coming up in July,” Bokuto murmurs, resting his chin on the crown of your head. 

“We should go then,” you say, instantly recognizing what he’s trying to get at. “Though I don’t know if three days is enough for a Hokkaido trip.”

“Are you trying to get me to stay more?” he teases gently. The song’s long over, something random now playing in the background, but he still holds you close. 

_Yeah, to figure out whatever the hell this is,_ you want to say.

But—

“No, I don’t want you complaining that you haven’t seen enough of it when we come back,” is what you say instead, your mouth uncomfortably dry. “Hokkaido’s not all that easy getting to.”

Bokuto makes a small _hmm_ in response. You’re not sure whether he’s really bought into your small lie. “I haven’t used a sick day yet. Another day won’t be a problem,” he says with a slight nod.

“You sure getting sick in the summer is believable?”

“It’s because it sounds unbelievable that I’m going to use it!”

“Ah, I guess that makes sense.”

You’ve pushed away thinking about it because you didn’t want to lose what you have in this today, in this moment. A song playing from your laptop. Some cans of beer strewn around, the sides still damp from the condensation. The dark sky up above, the moon in the distance. 

And the two of you, two _whatever this is_ seeking comfort in each other’s presence. 

Wasn’t this enough?

(would anything even change?)

All too soon, he removes himself from you. “I should probably get back to my place,” Bokuto says, peering at the small numbers displaying the time on your laptop. “Coach said sleeping at midnight isn't the best idea.”

_You could always crash here_ , pops into your mind.

“I forgot you professional athletes actually need a sleep schedule,” you joke, but it tastes bitter on your tongue. “Get outta here then.” Hands on his broad back, you lightly push him back inside the living room. “I’ll clean up out here.”

He grins, the same one as always.

“See you later then! I’m looking forward to Hokkaido!”

The knot at the center of your chest tightens as your apartment door closes softly without another word.

It’s quiet again, and you’re not sure if you liked it this way.  
  


* * *

  
  


July arrives after a slew of commissions and workshops, mindlessly occupying your time with both too much and too little to do. The application for the residency's filled out and sent and all you had to do was wait for their response. Bokuto’s practice with the Nationals team kept him busy as well, with the Asian Games and FIVB tournaments approaching on the horizon.

(“Is it really OK for you to come?” you had asked him once.

“Everybody needs a little break now and then,” he answered. “And this was my choice to go with you. Don’t worry about it.”)

It’s a bit past 10 in the morning when you and Bokuto arrive at the Haneda airport, bustling as always.

“I take this all back, this was a bad decision.”

“But we’re already here! What’s the point of turning back now?” Bokuto’s standing at the machine next to you, tapping away at the screen. His boarding pass starts printing out. “You already sent your text to your mom, didn’t you?”

“She hasn’t seen it yet, I could technically just delete it—”

“Saki,” he says firmly. “Don’t give up now.”

He’s right.

Your mind is plagued with a million thoughts running wildly: of what you’d say when you knocked on the door, how you’d act upon seeing your mother and Daisuke, what they were going to say, what you were going to do—

Most importantly, you wanted to show them that you were doing just fine on your own.

“Yeah,” you say, watching your boarding pass chugging out of the feeder. “Can’t give up now.”

“Besides—” Bokuto pats your back and leads you to the luggage check-in line. “I’m here with you!”

“Hearing you say that makes me feel less confident.”

“That was rude!” He feigns a shocked expression. “I do my role as the mood lifter pretty well!”

“I guess that’s true.” Turning away so that you’re not facing him—

“Thanks. For coming and all.”

“No problem!” Bokuto says. You don’t need to look at him to know he’s grinning. “That’s what I’m here for!”  
  


* * *

  
  


The plane ride to Sapporo is surprisingly quiet. 

At one point, Bokuto’s head falls on your shoulder. You turn away from the tiny window and catch a glance of his sleeping face. His mouth’s cracked open slightly and he’s snoring a bit, but there’s a peaceful look on his face. 

You lay back into your seat, careful to not make any sudden movements to disturb him, and close your eyes.

_It all doesn’t matter right now._   
  


* * *

  
  


A year ago, you wouldn’t have imagined yourself to be coming home.

Not in the middle of the month, during the summer.

And especially not with your next door neighbor.

But here you are, hitting off all those points as the two of you get off the bus from Chitose to Sapporo, Bokuto carrying his and your luggage even after your continued insistence that he didn’t need to do so.

“It both feels kinda big but small,” Bokuto comments after checking in at the hotel. “What are you going to do today?”

“I should probably knock out my obligated family visit first,” you answer as the elevator doors open. The two of you walk in. “We live close to here.”

Bokuto presses the button for the fourth floor, and the elevator begins its steady ascent up. “Do you want me to come?” 

“It’s fine. Some things you have to do on your own.” With a small _ding_ , the doors open once again and the two of you start walking to the room. “We can meet up afterwards though? You have any idea what you wanna do here?”

“I’m gonna take a nap!” Bokuto announces loudly, startling another person walking by.

A turn later, you arrive at the room and take out the card key, sliding it in and out the reader. “Didn’t you sleep on the plane already?” you ask as the reader emits a small _beep_ and a green light.

“Wow, you got that on your first try…” he mutters as the door opens, revealing a posh room with a traditional Japanese-style interior. “This is my first time in a really expensive _ryokan_! The beds must be high quality, right? Are you really sure it’s OK staying here for free?”

“Aren’t you a professional volleyball player?”

“We stay in all the name-brand hotels whenever we’re out. None of them had an onsen.”

“Well, I might have disagreements with my stepfather, but if he’s offering one of his rooms for free, I’ll take it,” you say, staking your claim on one of the beds as you jump onto it, the mattress sinking down. “Besides, it’s only for a day. He has more than enough money to miss out on one room not being paid.”

It’s the first time you’re rooming with Bokuto—the ryokan only offered double-bed rooms so you offered to share the room instead. Tachibana’s words cross your mind again— _you like him, don’t you?_ —and you shove it aside (again), but this was just for the sake of practicality.

Absolutely nothing else.

He wanders around the room, examining the decorations, inspecting the appliances, and flicking the switch for a table lamp shaped like a lantern with a small _wow,_ not much different from how a kid acts.

“If you ever wake up and want to go out, there’s a beer museum around here,” you say, flipping the brochure placed on the bedside table mindlessly. “Pay an homage to our development or something.”

“Shouldn’t you suggest something a little more… normal for a first-time visitor?” he asks, scrunching up his face. “Not like I’m really against beer or anything, but—”

“You’re asking for something normal coming from me?” You reach the back of the brochure with an advertisement for the Mt. Moiwa cable car rides.

“A lost cause, huh…” Bokuto bounces up from his seat at the small dining area. “Well, anywhere you’d suggest I’m sure will be fun!”

“That’s a nice sentiment and all, but I could just direct you to the middle of the redlight district.”

“But you wouldn’t do that…” The air of confidence leaves his body for a second. “Right?”

“Probably not.”

“That’s not really an answer?”

You chuckle, sliding off the bed. “Don’t worry. We can go there together.”

“I don’t think that really makes it better…”

* * *

  
  


It’s been four years since you were last in Sapporo.

Four years later: the air’s still fresh, peacefully busy with wide roads and less crowds compared to Tokyo. There’s more development through higher skyscrapers and new signs on buildings you haven’t seen before or forgotten, you’re not sure which.

But four years later, it’s still the same city as before.

Truth: Things don’t change all that easily.

Sitting on the bus and watching everything fly by, you briefly wonder if only four years had passed between you and Akaashi, whether things would still turn out like this.

(truth: certain things will have the same outcome no matter what.)  
  


* * *

It’s around noon when you finally arrive at the house, located in the upscale district of Maruyama. Your legs trudge on the gentle slope you’ve walked on countless times before, getting to-and-from school.

And of course, four years later, it’s still the same cream-colored house with a couple flowering planters placed out front. You knock on the door with a bated breath.

There’s a tumbling sound from inside, followed by the thundering of footsteps. “Coming!” a high pitched-voice yells out.

The door swings open. Your shoulders tense up just a bit.

“...(Name) nee-san?”

Opening the door is a young girl a head or so shorter than you still in her pyjamas, her eyes wide with curiosity and disbelief.

“Yo, Ao-chan,” you say, unable to suppress the grin forming on your face, raising a hand in greeting to your little sister. “I’m back.”

Stepsister, to be more accurate.

“Welcome home!” She wraps you in a large hug, almost toppling you over in the process. “I missed you!” 

“Ow ow ow, you’re kinda hurting me.” You ruffle the top of her head. “I missed you too though.”

“Mooooom!” she yells at the top of her lungs as she releases the hug, turning her head to the inside of the house. “She’s here!”

“You don’t need to raise your voice so loud, everybody and the neighbor can hear you,” a familiar voice calls out in response. Seconds later, your mother emerges, a ladle in hand and wearing an apron.

And all the words you wanted to say, were going to say, immediately die on the tip of your tongue. Your mind goes blank. Nothing’s forming from your gaping mouth as you can only stare at her in a shocked silence.

“What are you doing, standing around like you’ve lost your mind?” she chides you, a stern look on her features. “Are you coming in or not? Don’t just stand at the front door.”

With tentative steps you walk forward, slipping out of your shoes and into the slippers Ao set out for you.

“I get a text from you out of nowhere saying you’re coming today and had to call in late in a hurry,” your mother continues, walking to the kitchen. You follow her, not unlike a lost puppy. “Couldn’t you have let me know sooner? And why in the middle of the summer, of all times to come home?”

“Uh—” you clear your throat, thick with emotion. “Sorry?”

She huffs a sigh and turns off the stovetop, moving around a couple pots and dishes. “That’s all you have to say? Take a seat, lunch’s almost done.”

“It’s fine, I wasn’t planning on staying long—”

“You haven’t come back here in four years and you’re not even staying for lunch?” 

Standing in the middle of the space between the kitchen and the living room, your mind racks up the last time you had a proper meal together with everybody in the family, and you can’t come up with an answer. Whether because of work or other obligations, there was always a person or two missing at the table.

Your mother’s not looking at you, but she doesn’t need to. She probably doesn’t know either.

The argument dies in your throat. “I’ll stay then,” you meekly concede, taking a seat. 

“Then, I’ll go get Daisuke.” She unties her apron and walks up the stairs. You swivel your head, looking around the living room as you wait. A couple pieces of furniture have moved around and the walls have gotten a fresh coat of paint, but it’s still the same as before. Ao takes a seat next to you, pummeling you with a barrage of questions about Tokyo—” _do you see any celebrities?” “have you been to the Tokyo Tower?” “what’s your apartment like?”—_ you’re half-paying attention to. A lot of her photos are framed and line the top of the bookshelves, along with a couple gleaming trophies and medals displayed proudly.

In a forgotten corner, your gaze falls to a small photo of you and your mother, back when the two of you still lived in Tokyo. It’s the only presence you take up in the spacious living room—barely memorable if found. 

_Am I being pushed aside here?_

Well. It makes sense.

“Do you have a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?” Ao asks, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Er—what?” 

Before she continues, Daisuke and your mother come down the stairs. Even now, he’s wearing a button-down and slacks, the concept of a “break” alien to him too. You meet his eyes with a strained nod of your head; he responds with a smile that makes you clench your teeth.

“Thank you for letting me stay in your ryokan,” you say, trying your best to keep a polite face.

“No problem,” he answers, taking a seat opposite from you. 

“Let’s eat then!” your mother says, clapping her hands together.

A chorus of _thank yous_ fly out, and lunch flies by with more inquisitions from everybody and recent stories to fill the silence. To your relief, Daisuke doesn’t breathe a word related to Europe, though his cold, borderline-disapproving gaze is more than enough to tell you his thoughts on your current trajectory on being out of school. Your mother makes little comment on it—not that she ever did in the first place.

Truthfully, what else was there to expect but this?

“You should visit the ancestral grave,” she says as the plates of food are mostly cleared out. “Say a quick word or two to him. I’m going to stop by the restaurant later—something important came up—so I can’t come with you.”

“Who was the one pushing me to eat lunch again?” you mutter.

She gives you a _look_ as she rises. “Then come back more. You have free time now, don’t you? I don’t mind that you’re not here for winter, but don’t miss out Obon again.”

“Yes,” you say listlessly, your empty bowl in hand. “I’ll do the dishes then.”

“I’ll help!” Ao announces, bouncing up from her seat. “The dishwasher’s broken right now.”

“Thank you.” You head over to the sink and turn on the faucet, the steel completely spotless unlike yours (which _somehow_ has splatters of paint you never bothered washing out). Behind you, Ao brings over the rest of the plates and bowls and slips her hands into the bright blue rubber gloves hanging from the edge of the sink.

“Hey, Ao. Please look after Mom,” you tell her, over the sound of running water and scrubbing of the sponge. It’s probably too big of a burden on a child, you realize seconds later.

“And Dad?” she presses on, guileless eyes staring straight into your skull.

“And—Dad, yeah,” you reply, swallowing down the lump forming in your throat. “I’m sorry, Ao. Your big sister’s not that much of a help.”

Ao shakes her head vehemently. “Come back more!” she pleads, reaching over to set a dish in the dishrack. “I missed you.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, trying your best to smile for her. “Yeah, I’ll try.”  
  


* * *

  
  


Graveyards, even during the day, are eerily silent.

You found the Sasaki family grave after passing by a couple rows of tombstones, each weathered with their own stories and etched with countless names. After splashing some water across the top and setting a plate of dango to the side, you squat down and clasp your hands in prayer.

_What am I supposed to even say now?_

“Uh, hey,” you begin, the words coming out unnaturally. “It’s been a while.”

The tombstone doesn’t say anything back.

“Well, what was I expecting… But I guess I should say something now, shouldn’t I?”

You inhale, closing your eyes. Exhale, opening them again.

“To be honest… I still don’t really know if I’m doing the right thing.” Your gaze travels up to the sky, finding nothing of particular to note. “Daisuke still said it’s gonna be tough, as if I don’t know already. I think I’m just annoyed at it now because I know that it’s true. Of all the things I could do in my life, I chose this.

“It’s kind of weird talking to you like this, you know? I haven’t even seen your face before. I’ve forgotten about what Father’s looks like now. And maybe that’s cruel of me, but it’s been so long ago now, there’s no way I can remember.”

You take another breath to steady yourself, glad nobody else is in the vicinity to hear you. “A lot of things have happened since then… well, I guess it would be strange if there wasn’t. It hasn’t been easy at all. Still isn’t, either. You’d think I’m a proper adult by now and should be able to settle my differences, but I guess I’m still not there yet. Maybe someday in the future I’ll be fine, but who knows.

“I’m coming here with a friend today, he’s probably enjoying what there’s to offer here. Here’s a lot larger than Tokyo. Not so cramped. I think that’s a good thing, honestly. Maybe here…” you pause for a bit, biting the bottom of your lip.

“I can slowly start to become a human again. Find who I am, past my job and past the art. We’re all humans first, before anything, aren’t we? We burn out because we forget that.”

A pair of birds in the distance chirp in response.

“Saying that out loud was a bad idea.” You sigh. “I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore. Sorry, for going on a bit with my ramblings.”

With a bit of effort, you rise from your spot, stretching out your arms. “You know, people always ask me if I’ve ever seen your paintings at the airport and it’s kinda funny. They were the first things I saw when I got off the plane, after all.”

“Well, that’s all from me, I guess. Hope you’re doing well. Enjoy the dango,” you conclude, looking back up to the sky. This time, puffy clouds float by lazily.

_It’s going to be alright, isn’t it?_   
  


* * *

  
  


He ended up not taking a nap nor visiting the beer museum.

Bokuto took full advantage of the lunch service offered at the inn, chowing down on the plates of food with the hunger of somebody who hadn’t seen a piece of bread in months. He considered going out to explore the city, but then he decided that he might get lost wandering around, so he returned back to the room to wait.

Except—waiting around’s the worst.

On the bright side, you said you were coming back in about 30 minutes after he unlocked the door (which took two tries).

On the downside, 30 minutes is still a very long time. He flips through the various brochures all advertising the city. The names of parks and mountains fly by in his mind, none particularly appealing. Skiing looked interesting, but there probably isn’t snow during the middle of summer in Hokkaido, he surmised.

When he (finally) hears the door open again, Bokuto all but jumps up to greet you.

“So, how’d it go?” he asks tentatively, unable to judge from the expression on your face.

“I think I’m gonna change my last name to my mother’s maiden name now,” you say, slipping into the pair of sandals.

_Oh shit—_

“What happened? Are you OK?”

“No, nothing like that.” You wave off his concern, flopping onto the bed unceremoniously. “This was something I wanted to do a while back. Completely unrelated.”

“Hmm.” He doesn’t push for more, deciding it’s not worth the effort. “What’s your mother’s name?”

“(Surname),” you answer, like the name’s still a bit foreign on your tongue.

“I’ll have to call you a new nickname now, huh…” An intense look of concentration appears on his face. “Give me a second…”

The next words you say so quietly, he’s not sure he catches it.

“You can just call me (Name).”

There’s a couple moments of silence as he digests this new development. He repeats your name in his mind a couple times.

“Then, (Name) it is,” he says, taking a liking to how it sounds. “You can call me Koutarou if you want!”

“Too long.”

His heart sinks.

A moment later: “Is Kou fine?”

And his heart almost bursts in his chest.

“Whatever works for you, (Name)! What are we going to do today then?”

There’s a grin on his face that he can’t quite wipe off for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year! this one's shorter this time around, hope you didn't mind. and now there's three chapters left... that's kinda wild. following in the footsteps of my predecessor, let me know if you guys are interested in doing a little q&a i'll be using google forms for the very end of this fic


	21. north

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Am I the idiot? I like you."

_You’re six, seven years old in your earliest memory._

_With your family, you’re in a forest at night. You’re clinging onto your parents’ hands as you take a step forward, one at a time, the snow crunching beneath your feet. Ahead of you is a vast whiteness, still untouched by anybody or anything. The shadows from the trees lilt gently on the snow, hiding away their own secrets._

_“Shouldn’t we carry her?” your father asks your mother, puffs of white forming from every word. “It’ll be easier that way.”_

_“It’s just a little snow, it won’t bother her,” she replies. “I’m more worried about your health.”_

_“It’s just a little snow, it won’t bother me,” he answers slyly, then turns his attention to you. “Right? We can power through this.”_

_You nod your head, though your ears feel like they’re about to fall off. After some more trudging the three of you reach a small clearing._

_“This should be a good spot,” your father says, his footsteps coming to a halt._

_You look up at him, curiously. “For what?”_

_“Lift your head up.”_

_You oblige, and what greets you is—_

  
  


* * *

  
  


“This is the Urasando Summer Festival. The neighborhood here’s capitalist heaven, but the food is pretty good.”

The second day, you and Bokuto spend the morning in the upscale neighborhood. It’s summer, but the weather isn’t unbearably hot as the sun shines down on your skin. Crowds of people, foreigners and Japanese alike, are milling around the street either with food in hand or perusing what’s available in the numerous food stalls lined against the sidewalks. Some are even donned in _yukata_ , bright patterns coming to life under the sun. Luxury apartments stand tall as a backdrop, a sight not unlike Tokyo.

“Ooh!” Bokuto stops at a stall serving yakiniku skewers, the smell wafting from the sizzling grill irresistible to him and he can’t hide his drool. The owner gives him a friendly wave and a “Welcome!” 

“Does your mother’s restaurant have a stall here?” he asks, after picking out what he wants with rapid speed.

“Of course. Oh, but they operate under a name called Gagarin.”

“Why is that?”

“Well it all started during my mother’s last day of work at her old restaurant…” Your eyes close in remembrance of the story. “The master said she wasn’t exactly the best apprentice, believe it or not. But my mother was one of the most hardworking people that he’s ever taught, so he let her become the successor. She opened up a new restaurant called Voyager. Something about wanting a dream space of curry and bread.” A bit softer: “Though I don’t really get how that happens when all they do is play bossa nova covers. Well, anyways, the food stall’s still called Gagarin though.”

“So your mother is honoring her master’s teachings?

You shake your head as you open your eyes. 

“It’s because the master’s grandson ran away!” you declare, startling a couple pigeons pecking away at breadcrumbs on the side. “He was supposed to be the true successor of the restaurant. You know, familial ties and all. If the stall’s featured on the news, there’s a chance for him to come back—that’s what my mother told me.”

Bokuto takes a large bite from a skewer, picking it off clean in one bite as he turns to face you and hands you one. “Is that.. really true?” he asks, hesitation in his voice.

“No, I just made that up.”

“Are you serious?”

The two of you continue walking down the road, passing by a group of kids doing a plate-spinning relay (much to Bokuto’s amusement), a troupe of jugglers spinning balls on umbrellas (that he wanted to try too), buying all sorts of food for later, until a familiar stall with a yellow awning comes into view. “Gagarin” is printed on it in a bright red color. The familiar smell of curry drifts by as one of the workers lifts open the lid of a giant pot, examining the contents.

“I forgot how bad this color combination was…” you mutter, distaste apparent in your features. “It’s like McDonald’s, but somehow even worse.”

“(Name)...” Bokuto starts, his breath hitching. “Who’s the person over there staring at the stall with a frown on his face?”

You look to where he’s pointing. Sure enough, a short bald man, his face twisted in a permanent scowl, stares intensely at the stall from behind a tree.

“Oh, that’s the master’s grandson. He’s been there every year,” you answer, walking past the stall with hurried steps, not wanting to be seen by the workers.

“Wait, that story was true then?!” Bokuto jogs a little to catch up. “Also, aren’t you gonna go stop by?”

You wave your hand. “When I have lied to you? And the curry there’s subpar. It’s just the leftovers from what the restaurant can’t sell. We can just go to the restaurant for lunch. Though—” you look over to his hands, filled with styrofoam boxes. “Maybe we should’ve gone there last night for dinner instead.”

“But you gotta have sushi in Hokkaido first,” he argues. “That’s what one of my teammates told me! Besides—” his face splits into a grin. “You’re wrong if you think I won’t be hungry after this!”

You chuckle. “I guess that’s true.”  
  


* * *

  
  


( _“Per aspera ad astra_ ,” your mother said. “Through hardships to the stars. That was a message that the recording for Voyager had.”

“What was it for?”

“Sending a message to the aliens.”

“Eh? Why?”

There’s a wistful twinkle in her eye you’re not quite familiar with. “Humans are lonely creatures,” she replied. “We’re all finding ways to cope with it.”)  
  


* * *

  
  


Here’s a short interlude on sheep in Japan.

We know sheep as an herbivorous social animal, the primary source of wool and meat. Over a billion domestic sheep currently populate our planet.

However, up until the early Meiji period, few Japanese people have ever seen or even processed the concept of a sheep. It might as well have had the same mythical, legendary quality like a dragon or a phoenix, and it was drawn like some wild monstrosity birthed purely from imagination.

At the start of the Meiji era, with the promotion of a westernized lifestyle, sheep were imported and raised from America. Livestock farming was heavily promoted, and the government formed official plans for stock raising. But some time after the second World War, the merits of raising sheep in Japan plummeted due to the liberalization of importation. Australia and New Zealand could provide wool and mutton extremely cheaply, so the Japanese government stopped promoting sheep raising.

Nowadays, the presence of sheep in Japan is very, very rare, and the few that exist are mainly for fat stock rather than wool, even though the consumption of wool in Japan is shockingly high, ranking third behind China and the United States. 

Why is this any important?

“Wow, I never knew that! Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen a sheep in person before!” Bokuto says, gazing admirably at the fluffy animal in front of him.

The sheep bleats out a _baa_ in response. A couple others follow as well.

_Herd thinkers._

It was early evening when the two of you arrived in Bifuka after a three-hour train ride. Halfway between Sapporo and Wakkanai, the ultimate destination, making it a good place for a pitstop. Out in the middle of nowhere, the town has barely any traces of development present. Even though it’s mid-summer, the shutters of shops closed down and the absurdly wide roads blanketed everything in a sparse chill. In complete contrast to Sapporo, there’s nobody milling around, only a couple townsfolk with the signature weary, run-down look.

Pure, rural Japan. 

Extremely dull in all aspects, all things considered. The only positive is that if the Sapporo air is considered clean, the air here is sparkling, almost hurting your lungs with its freshness. These were the types of places where even decades from now, hardly anything would change. A town running forever on its last breaths. Perhaps it’ll fall apart the next day. It’s a place where you’d least expect to find a pair of people from Tokyo to visit.

Except there are, anyways. The pioneers of modernity stretch far out.

Did Sakamoto ever visit here on his bike? You told him you were going to Hokkaido back at the wedding, and he enthused over the sights he took in on his trip, spanning from the great mountains and muddy rivers rushing by. Maybe a town like this, despite its state, was something he found a bit of solace in.

Tonight’s stay is at an inn next to Matsuyama Farm, somewhere only one road leads to it, one of the few farms where sheep are still raised and processed. Hardly a trace of a building is present here, only grass and trees that stretched outwards for kilometers greets you. Time flows even slower than it does at Nanase’s studio here, so slow that it doesn’t seem to exist at some points. 

“I thank Google for all of that information,” you reply, ending your staredown with a sheep, the horizontal pupils still somewhat unnerving you. The rest of the flock is still scattered around the pasture, movements slow and languid.

Suffolk sheep are peculiar even amongst sheep—their bodies are black yet their fleece is white. Long, wide ears stretch out to the sides and a tall nose runs down the middle. You spent a good hour or so sketching them, Bokuto peering curiously over your shoulder every once in a while. 

“How’d you even find the place?” Bokuto asks, giving the sheep he affectionately dubbed “Cotton Ball” a last pat on the head.

“Apparently a setting in Murakami’s novels takes direct inspiration from here.” You stand up from your squatting position, closing your sketchbook shut. “So they have an inn here for all of his diehard fans that want to take a tour around.”

“Murakami?” Bokuto tilts his head. “I think Akaashi mentioned something about liking that guy a lot! I’ve definitely seen him read his books on the subway when we went back home from practice.”

Maybe it’s not fair of you to do so, but with all the free time you have now, you couldn’t help but think about a lot of things.

One, of where the differences between Bokuto and Akaashi are.

You looked to Akaashi to help ease your loneliness; but he never will. Even when he was so close to you that night, there was an ocean of distance separating the two of you that can never be crossed, not anymore. Maybe once in the past it did, but even now, you’re forgetting what happened then. 

It’s not like the two of you were incompatible. There’s a mold, a puzzle he fits himself into. Never exceeding or overflowing. Some might even call it perfect.

And it worked.

Until it didn’t.

Because nothing is perfect.

Because nothing lasts forever.

And whatever the two of you were—

“He’s a pretty famous contemporary author. I’m not surprised Akaashi picked him up,” you reply, your throat uncomfortably dry.

—It already faded in the time you spent apart, while the both of you were desperately clinging onto hope that it doesn’t. Through the phone calls running on fumes.

Because you were afraid that one day, it would go completely silent. Words crackling out into nothing.

A line gone static.

That was what the puzzle at large was trying to show that the both of you were trying to ignore.

It just wasn’t meant to be.

The sky above suddenly sends down rain, slickening the dirt beneath your feet. With only a glance and a nod at each other, you head back into the inn with Bokuto before it gets any worse.

The owner of the inn greets you with a polite bow, ushering you and Bokuto to the dining table. It’s a cramped area without much leg room, but it’s cozy. A small family and a group of seniors are already seated with pleasant conversation passing around, their faces bathed in the warm golden light hanging from above.

“Oh, it’s Bokuto-senshu!” one of the elders—Takagi or Takaki, you can’t remember which—says, waving a greeting to the volleyball player. “I’m telling you, this man’s gonna take Japan to the international levels! We’ll be standing on the big stage out there!”

Bokuto, on the other hand, came into your life with a crash (quite literally too) and sparks flying out from the impact. He takes one look at you, and asks, _demands_ , if everything in life is as complicated as the tangles you knotted yourself into.

You thought he was worlds away because of that. Somebody like Bokuto was the complete opposite of your very fiber of existence, cut from a different cloth.

Through circumstances you’re not entirely sure of now, the two of you got close. Whether out of a want to, or the circumstances forcing the two of you to do so, it happened.

When it did, everything seemed to just _make sense._

And you ran away from it all.

“Are you sure you can beat all of those foreigners?” another one asks, her face etched with skepticism. “They’re all so big and tall.”

“We won’t know until we try, Amano-san,” Bokuto replies, taking a seat right next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. “But I’m feeling pretty confident about it myself!”

“So confident that you can take a secret trip here with your girlfriend, it seems,” Takagi-or-Takaki jabs with a light chuckle.

Bokuto looks to you in a momentary panic before regaining his composure “No, we’re not—”

“I’m sure he’ll be able to snag a podium spot,” you say with a smile, cutting him off. “There’s always the next coming years as well.”

The elderly man smiles, the lines around the corner of his mouth deepening. “You have a pretty long career path, don’t you! I saw the finals from my television when it was broadcasting…”

Dinner passes by without a hitch, though you can’t quite look Bokuto in the eye for the rest of it.  
  


* * *

  
  


Later that evening, when the two of you are in the room:

“You know you didn’t have to do that,” Bokuto says softly, drying his hair vigorously with a towel. It’s completely flat for once, taking you by surprise at how un-Bokuto he looks. “At the dinner table.”

You shrug, taking a seat on your bed. “We’re only staying here for this one night, the old man’s probably gonna forget about me anyways.”

“You’re not forgettable at all!” he retorts immediately, walking over to his bed. Then, with a shocked look—”Wait. That sounded kinda… weird, didn’t it? Sorry.”

“It’s fine, I get what you mean.” You lie down, feeling your body sink into the mattress. A wave of exhaustion from walking around all day hits you immediately, shutting your eyes. “Sorry if it made you uncomfortable though.”

There’s a beat of silence that hangs in the room for a bit too long until—

“No, I don’t mind.” His voice sounds strangely distant, as if he’s speaking and not all at once. “Then. Goodnight, (Name).”

A part of you wants for him to stay up just a second longer, because _why not,_ but—

“Goodnight, Kou,” is all you manage to say.

Except you can’t fall asleep.

The sound of rain pattering on the window is the only thing you hear in the silence. It fills your ears and overflows your mind, sinking the farm into the mud. One hundred years’ worth of history seeped in the foundation of the town follows as weeds spring to life, eating away at every part of civilization. Time moves forward and backwards, back to a place before infrastructure rose, back to a place before humans touched the ground, leaving only the wild deer, wolves, and bears to roam free on the plains. The ocean of grass sways in the wind, back when things were quieter, simpler, _easier._

Back to the beginning of everything.  
  


* * *

  
  


— _Millions of stars dotting the night sky is all you see, glistening like jewels._

_You can’t even manage out words as you look at the sight above you. Your worries about your cold ears are slowly washed away, replaced with a sense of pure awe for what’s above you. For how long you stand there in silence you’re not sure, until you turn to look at your father—_

_“Why are you looking at me?” you ask. “Did you even look at them?”_

_“I’ve already seen this view a lot,” he says. “They don’t change that much over the years.”_

_“But Mom says they move around a lot as the seasons change!”_

_He laughs. It’s gentle, like a spring breeze blowing over a field of dandelions. “That’s true. But I guess it’s also because I wanted to see how you reacted to them.”_

“—(Name)?” a voice calls out. You jerk your head up, taken out of your memory and back on the train, slightly swaying along with its motions. seeing Bokuto’s face right next to yours. In his hand is a clear bottle of sheep milk from the farm, half-empty. 

“What?”

“Er, I asked if your hometown was around here or not. I’ve just been following you around here, so I was wondering if there’s any importance to going up north…” his voice trails off.

“Oh, uh—” you frown in thought. “I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to go somewhere far out for once. It’s more about the process of getting there then actually getting there, I think.”

Bokuto makes a small _hmm_ sound in thought as he sinks back into his seat. Somewhere in the background, a baby cries out. Somebody tries to hush it. “Wait, so where is your hometown then? Is it Sapporo?”

You shake your head. “It’s nearby. Otaru. Up northwest from Sapporo.”

“Why didn’t we go?”

Your gaze falls outside to the window. Flashes of the scenery pass by, nothing retaining in your mind. The midday light shines through the greenery, casting a tranquil spell onto everything.

“It’s better to see that place when there’s snow,” you finally reply, resting your cheek against the palm of your hand. “Things are nice and quiet like that.”

“We should come back here in the winter then.”

“We haven’t even finished this trip and you’re planning the next one already?” You shake your head with a quirk of your lips. “Slow down a bit.”

“I saw the ice festival in a brochure and it looked really cool!” Bokuto says, his eyes lighting up. He takes a slow sip from his drink. “Also, I’ve never been skiing or snowboarding before. It looks pretty fun!”

“Do you really have to go all the way up here to do it though?”

“Well, I guess not.” He pauses, a contemplative look forming on his face. “But I like it here, so I want to come back again.”

You choose not to respond, listening to the noise of the train chugging along the rails instead.  
  


* * *

  
  


(Maybe sometime weeks ago, you're not too sure, on the balcony:

Bokuto lets out a satisfied exhale, crushing his just-emptied can in his fist. “We should call it a night now.”

You’re lazily spinning yours between your fingers, not looking to anywhere in particular. “Hey…” you begin. “Is one more beer alright with you?”

“You only drank Sapporo Premium though, right?” he asks.

“I'll take whatever right now,” You take the last sip from yours, the taste lingering on your tongue. “Been a long day.”

He scrutinizes you a bit, probably getting the gist of what you’re trying to get at. “I think I have some Kirin stored, I’ll grab a couple of those then,” Bokuto says. “Be back in a bit!”

You hear a loud _crash_ , followed by a yelp. Maybe a cat meows too? A couple seconds later (though it felt like eternities), Bokuto comes back out, triumphantly holding up two cans of beer, his hair more frazzled than usual. He tosses one to you; you catch it without a hitch.

“Why did it sound like you went through hell and back in there to get these?” you ask, cracking open the tab.

“I’ll do it all again for you,” he grins, also opening his can. “It wasn’t a problem at all!”

“Cheesy.” You take a sip. There’s nothing particularly special about it, but it’s not horrible—maybe you’d even dare say it’s not that bad. “Didn’t think you were the type.”

Bokuto winks. “I can do that and some more if you want.”

“You’re drunk, go home.”

“I am home though!” He crosses his arms. “You were the one who asked to stay out here, anyways!”

You look up to the sky, faintly remembering the promise you made to Bokuto that one night ago. _Let’s go see the stars in Hokkaido_ , because the stars here weren’t enough.

“Guess I did.”)  
  


* * *

  
  


Wakkanai showed more signs of life; the port city hummed with the sound of the sea and the chatter of mundane life. After eating lunch in a small restaurant, the two of you get off the tour bus to Cape Soya and stretch out your limbs, greeted by the endless sea. The waves are rough, tossing themselves onto the jagged rocks with crashes.

“Too bad there’s not a beach here,” Bokuto remarks as the two of you get off the bus, stretching your limbs. “A beach at the northernmost part of Japan would’ve been cool.”

You give him a pointed look. “The whole city is a beach, what more do you want.”

“But where’s the sand? The seashells?”

“We can probably find one somewhere.”

The guide calls out a reminder that the next bus will arrive in under an hour, letting everybody roam free. You walk over to the small monument erected at the edge of the land, a simple triangular sculpture on top of a circular stairwell made of stone—something that symbolized the peace treaty between Japan and Russia, the tour guide had said. Other monuments celebrating various figures are scattered around the area as well.

“You know, I don’t think I would’ve thought a trip up here was something I expected doing this year,” says Bokuto as he waits in line to take his picture.

“I didn’t either,” you reply. “But here we are.”

The line shuffles forward a bit and he hands you his phone. “Let me take a picture of you too!”

“I don’t really like—”

“Please?”

And there’s _something_ about his pleading face, the way his eyes glisten and his mouth pouting that you just can’t say _no_ to.

“Fine then,” you huff. The people at the monument move away. Bokuto skips over to it, his hands thrown up into the air in a victory pose and a radiant beam on his face. You take a couple pictures from different angles and then switch off, albeit reluctantly so..

Bokuto holds up the phone. “Smile!”

You stretch your mouth. A harsh gust of wind blows by. 

“That’s not really a smile…”

“I’m trying my best here!”

After a couple _clicks_ of the shutter, you get off the steps. The two of you start wandering around the area with over half an hour left before the return bus comes.

“It’s really peaceful here,” Bokuto muses, his fingers tapping on the railing separating the rocky coast from the land. “Really different from the city. Almost feels like all of your worries are just wiped away.”

“With how strong the wind is”—and as if on cue, another gust flies over—”You kind of can’t focus on your worries.”

“That might be it,” he chuckles. “Let’s go get some souvenirs before the bus comes! They should have some pretty good dried fish here, right?”

“You really like getting souvenirs, don’t you?”

“It’s mainly just to dump on people to show all the cool places I’ve been too!” He laughs. “I like to find the weirdest stuff I can and send them to Kuroo and Akaashi.”

Your shoulders hunch over. “I see, you were just dumping stuff on me then…”

Bokuto freezes up a bit, shakes his head more vigorously than normal. “That was—something else.” Bokuto clears his throat. “Anyways! Maybe they have treats too?” he continues, as if nothing happened. “Hokkaido milk is really good!”

“Is there anything else going on in your mind other than volleyball and food?”

"Good question!"

"That's not an answer."  
  


* * *

  
  


To Bokuto’s delight, there's a beach at the south side of the city. The blustering winds aren’t any better here, streaking through the tall grasses. You pull your jacket closer to your body.

“We can go back if you want,” he says, the soles of his shoes sinking into the sand. You shake your head.

“‘M all good here. You wanted to come, right?”

There’s fewer people at the beach, some daring enough to go into the water, carried around by the waves. Their screams and laughs are carried by the wind. Bokuto briefly wonders what it’d be like to go swimming, but neither of you brought any swimwear, so the thought escapes.

He’s about to suggest a race to see who can pick up the most seashells, but when he turns to you, you’ve disappeared. Bokuto finds you already wandering around the beach, looking through the sand, hand already clutching a couple shells. Without another thought, he immediately squats down and scans his surroundings, trying to find the bits of white. Not a word is exchanged between the two of you.

Bokuto’s usually not used to silence. He likes to fill it up with little musings and comments tossed around. The best way to know people is through talking.

But you take that idea and toss it out the window. _There’s more to me than just the words_ , you seem to say. He learns about how you see the world through your art, how you talk even without talking. Bokuto idly watches you sift through the sand, your every expression shifting almost imperceptibly so. _That one’s no good. That one could be decent._ It takes him a great amount of effort to pry himself away from you.

 _It’s really peaceful here. Like your worries are wiped away_.

Not just because of the city, he thinks. You play a hand in it too.

He finds a small one a bit jagged at the edges but there’s flecks of colors on it that he thinks you’ll like. Then another, because the shape is unique. Some distance away, a third, because the pattern is pretty. Soon, Bokuto forgets the initial premise of the race as it’s replaced by a search for finding seashells he thinks you’ll like.

Some time later, you finally approach him. “Yo,” you say, holding out an assortment of shells of all sorts of sizes and shapes. “Thought you’d like these.”

He laughs, revealing his hands filled with shells.

“I thought the same!”

 _Is there anything else going on in your mind other than volleyball and food?_ you asked him.

 _Yeah,_ he thinks. _There’s you too._  
  


* * *

  
  


Night falls over with clear skies and you finally get to fulfill the promise you made to Bokuto those months back in the winter.

“Do you trust me?” you ask, as the two of you are finishing dinner at a seafood restaurant. 

“Of course I do!”

“Then, when we get outside, I want you to never look up from the ground. I’ll hold your hand to take you to our final place.”

His brows furrow. “Where are we going?”

“Secret.”

And so that’s how you led him around the street, trusting in him that he wouldn’t look up from the ground. A couple of strange looks are thrown your way as you trek up the gentle slope to the park but you ignore them all.

Bokuto’s hand is warm, his fingers interlaced tightly between yours. If you squeeze it just a bit, you can feel his pulse beating steadily with yours. You try not to do so too much, in fear that he’ll notice.

“We’re here,” you say, releasing your hand (but a part of you doesn’t want to do so). “You can lift your head up now.

Bokuto complies, and—

“ _Wow_.”

As if the celestials had accidentally spilled a bucket of glitter, the dark sky glittered with countless stars. It’s no wonder why Van Gogh painted two starry night scenes—one painting was not enough to capture the beauty that each twinkle held, maybe not even two either. The two of you take a seat on the grassy expanse, staring at the sky above. No words are exchanged for a brief period of time, only the rustle of the leaves are heard, but that’s OK—no words are needed. You find yourself sneaking a couple glances to look at Bokuto’s expression of wonder for the stars.

“Have you been stargazing before?” he asks with a quiet tone, as if speaking any louder would disturb the tranquility of the scene.

“Yeah. My old man was really into this kind of stuff. He told me a lot of stories about the constellations,” you answer, hugging your knees close to your chest. “Pointed out all the ones that he knew too.”

“Do you know any?”

“I could probably name a lot of them a long time ago. But now, I think I can only name the Big Dipper.”

“Where’s that?”

Your hand drifts upwards, tracing a connection between a cluster of stars. “Right up there. The tail end of the star is the north star, which is the only star that doesn’t move in the northern sky.”

“Wow! Like the _Fist of the North Star_!”

“That’s a completely different thing.”

“I see...” His skin is barely (barely, barely again, but it feels like an infinity away) brushing against yours, but you can feel its warmth. “D’you know anything about it?”

“Well… It’s also called Polaris, because of its alignment with the North Pole.” Your hand drops to your side, brushing over the grass. “There’s a story where Julius Caesar once said he was just like that star since it doesn’t move. But Polaris does actually move, over the course of many, many centuries. Maybe that’s why Caesar died.”

“Oh!” His eyebrows fly upward. “Your exhibition title had Polaris in there, right? The one for your graduating show?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “ _The Journey of Polaris_. Even constants change. Nothing will ever remain the same in this world. It was my way of letting go of my old self. In a way.”

Still, you’re not sure if there’s that big of a difference between the you of right now and the you of the past—or whether there was a difference to begin with.

“But not everything changes quickly, right?” he replies, his eyes still transfixed on the scene up above. “You said so yourself, Polaris moves over many, many centuries.”

“Yeah, just like how you’ve really been an amazing pain in my side ever since we met.”

“That’s an admission of how amazing I am! I’ll take it!”

“You’re kind of an idiot, aren’t you?”

Bokuto's lips form an exaggerated frown as he turns to look at you with indignance. “And what about you then?”

And his eyes like suns, aren’t something you’re afraid of anymore.

Just breaths away from you. _What would it be like to close the distance_ flashes in your mind. It takes your best effort to shove that aside but you're not sure if it's really gone.

Eyes trained back up to the stars, you hope nothing in your posture betrays anything. “No better off, honestly."

He grins.

“We can be idiots together then!”

“Please don’t lump me in the same category as you.”

“Hey!”

You ran away from Bokuto, believing that things were too good to be true. In some half-baked text sent out of momentary frustration, not knowing what else to do.

And nothing changed. Or they did, but in infinitesimal moments, just like how the north star moves. 

But if you really were going to ignore him, you wouldn’t have accepted his souvenirs. Wouldn’t have dropped everything and ran out from your show, only thought to chase him down. 

Wouldn’t have _said anything_ in the first place, because what kind of friend does that?

And there’s more to it too, that you’re realizing underneath the starry plain. The knot at the center of your chest, the words not needed to be said, how you’ll always make the smallest, silliest, _dumbest_ exceptions for him.

There’s only one reason why, really.

Or, on the contrary, at last.

Or, the other way—finally.

A genuine smile graces your features.

“Just kidding.”  
  


* * *

  
  


_“Why do you want to see my reactions?”_

_“Because I love you.”_

_You stick your tongue out._

_“I don’t get it!”_

_He laughs. “Maybe someday you will then.”_

The last line echoes in your mind distantly as your head’s resting on the pillow. All’s quiet in the room save for the sound of Bokuto’s light snores. The moonlight falls through the gaps of the curtain, shining on some parts of his face. So serene, so _different_ from what he’s like awake. 

_But still,_ you think, as you clench your hand that held Bokuto’s, trying to keep the lingering warmth from earlier, _that’s nice too._  
  


* * *

The final morning begins after checking out of the hotel, starting the route back to Sapporo on a bus. Energy spent having finally caught up with the both of you, not a word’s spoken in the long hours that pass by. It almost feels like a dream watching everything fly by, waiting for reality to come again.

At long last, after getting off the bus from Ueno Station, the air groggy and humid, you take the elevator up to your floor, Bokuto right next to you (holding your luggage once again, because if he’s done it once he’ll “continue to do so, so just let me carry it”).

The fluorescent elevator light shines blearily above you as you enter, pressing the button for the seventh floor.

Only silence remains.

Maybe it’s _too_ silent, on second thought. 

Something about tonight is different. Stifling instead of comfortable. Bokuto taps his foot, a sort of distraction for you, but it’s too fast to be normal. Or maybe it’s all in your head. You swallow thickly, unable to control how fast your heart’s racing.

(for what reason? you think you know why.)

The elevator stops with a small _ding_ and the doors slide open again. You walk out first, Bokuto trailing right behind with your suitcases. From your pocket, you take out your key and push it into the lock, turning it with a _click_ , and open the door.

“Why don’t you come in for a bit?” slips out from your mouth.

“Alright,” he says, and the two of you step inside.

The apartment’s still in the same condition as you left it. Paintings still unsold stacked against the wall, pads of paper and supplies strewn casually about the desk and the floor. The eternal linger of turpentine in the air, something you forgot briefly how strong it was.

“Oh, did you get the flowers changed out?” Bokuto asks, nodding to the owl vase on the coffee table. He hovers around the doorway, unsure where to go. “Was gonna ask you that the other day, but forgot about it.”

“Well, yours did die.” You don’t bother turning on the light as you slide out of your sneakers, maybe because it’s too much effort. Maybe because of something else. “And I didn’t know what else to do with the vase, so I bought some more.”

“I can do that too, you know,” he says just a tad softer than normal, pushing your suitcase forward. “Well, see you tomorrow then.”

He turns to leave.

And—

“Hey,” you begin, in the silence of your apartment. Without much thought, probably because you’re tired from the long day of traveling. “Am I am the idiot?”

Bokuto glances back at you, curiously so. 

It’s weird—how nothing changes. And then everything does, comes crashing down like a wave and recedes until it becomes nothing more than the flow of life. Time moves forward, life goes on. As it always does, as it always will.

You’d be stupid for saying you didn’t realize, didn’t _know,_ what the knot at the center of your chest was. Like Tachibana said. Why you’re drawn, maybe too much so, to his every reaction. And for whatever reason it took so long to get here, you think you know that too.

Are you scared? Maybe so. The thought of running away again from all this crosses your mind. Letting this go, letting things _remain the way they are_ when nothing’s really changed in the end is an easy feat to do. Even if Tachibana assured you Bokuto felt the same, nobody’s a mind reader. Both simple yet an enigma—some days he’s like an open book, other days you don’t think you know him at all.

That’s just who he is as a person.

That’s why you think, you _know_ you feel the way you do. 

You’re not one to believe in fate or destiny. Those were for dreamers. You can only rely on the remnants of what’s left, after reality weathers and erodes away at the surface.

“(Name)?” he says, even quieter this time around. There’s a questioning look on his face, a little tired and a little fond all at once. 

_Per aspera ad astra_. Through hardships to the stars. You’re not sure if you could ever reach those stars, but you know there’s a lot of hardships down the road. 

You take a step closer.

It’s not like you’re looking for a good ending out of all of this. Not even sure if that exists in the first place. And maybe this isn’t the right thing to do either.

But after _all this time_ , you don’t think you care that much about it anymore.

Maybe it’s futile, useless to do this. But right now, right in this _second_ , you wanted more. _One more beer._ To hold his hand just a bit longer, to stay in his presence just a bit more. Take the infinity that separates between the two of you into a zero.

It’s selfish, maybe too much so.

But there’s an inkling inside you that tells you, _maybe_ _it’s alright to be optimistic for once._

How things are, for you, has always involved Bokuto in some way.

It was simply a matter of the right place, right time with him. In every _today_ possible.

Isn’t that enough?

Your mouth opens, and the next words that come tumbling out are—

“I like you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more to go + the epilogue... oh god


	22. us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's going to be alright.

Ryujin Nippon flew out to Jakarta the first week of August, arriving at the athletes’ village without a hitch for the Asian Games. They were drawn into Pool C with Kazakhstan and Myanmar, the former ranked 10th at the last games and the latter 14th. Japan just missed out on gold at the 2014 Games, defeated by Iran in a 3-1 set, so getting out of the groups was practically a guarantee. Their poor performance at the Nations League just months earlier and the FIVB Championships on the line right after, securing a victory here would “be a great momentum boost for everyone,” as Coach Hibarida stated.

Winning was the only thing on their minds.

The next Saturday after, the team paraded out with the other Japanese Representatives at the Opening Ceremony across the stage, phones and smiles out for the thousands in the crowd. To their left is the breathtaking backdrop of the stadium, a towering mountain with a waterfall shooting straight down accompanied with the natural flora of Indonesia. Bokuto walks alongside with Komori in the white tracksuits, waving their mini flags. The camera pans to him and he waves wildly in front of it up to the last second. Behind him, Atsumu half-yells to Suna to c _heer up, you dolt_ to which the middle blocker merely sighed, lost in the blaring music. Ushijima is up front leading the team with his tiny flags, his classic stoic expression unchanging.

They return back to the athletes’ village in the middle of the night still buzzing with exhilaration, walking underneath the towering apartment buildings. Hanging from the balconies and windows are thousands of country flags marking each country’s section, theirs on one of the buildings to the right. After grabbing some snacking food from the stalls nearby, everybody crammed into the elevator, riding up to their floor.

Bokuto’s rooming with Ushijima after the draw with lots on the plane. The two of them bid goodnight to the rest of the team and enter their room, which is spartanly furnished with two beds and a low table. White walls surround them, the fluorescent light from the ceiling enveloping the room a bit too brightly. Bokuto changes into a set of comfortable clothes and hops onto the bed while Ushijima finishes washing his hands. 

“Hey, do you mind if I call someone right now?” Bokuto asks, pulling out his earbuds.

“I don’t mind,” answers Ushijima, sitting down on his bed. “Please don’t take too long. I’m a bit tired.”

“No problem!” He quickly finds the contact, presses the call button, waits a couple rings, and then—

“Hey hey hey! How’s it going? Did you see me during the opening ceremony? I looked pretty cool, didn’t I?”

“It’s like, 4 in the morning right now,” you answer with a bleary voice.

“But you’re still up, aren’t you? You definitely watched it!”

“Yeah, I did.” A yawn. “Saw your face on the TV here. Front and center.”

“That was for you especially! Glad you enjoyed it!”

“Don’t remember saying anything about that. Well—” you clear your throat. “I guess… it wasn’t bad.”

He laughs. “Didn’t know you could be a tsundere!” And before a retort spews out from your mouth—”Well, I should go now, otherwise I don’t think I’d be able to sleep,” he says, fully aware of Ushijima’s increasingly intense stare. “Good night! See you soon!”

“Was that your—” Ushijima searches for the right words as Bokuto presses the end call button. “‘Girlfriend-not-a-girlfriend?’”

“You could tell?”

So _maybe_ Bokuto also announced that to the entirety of the team on the plane, complete with a showing of pictures. _Maybe_ he took his best efforts to call you, even though his only free time was late at night and your timezone is 2 hours ahead.

“You always talk louder when you’re talking with her,” Ushijima says, swinging his legs up onto the bed as he leans back onto the mattress. It looks a bit awkward, but so did everything for him.

“Ah, sorry about that! Did I tell you she’s an artist?” Bokuto asks, taking out his earbuds. “Her art is really amazing!”

“You did. Twice already.”

“That so?” He scratches his head with a nervous chuckle. “I forgot!”

An awkward moment of silence follows.

“This stuff probably doesn’t interest you…” Bokuto lets out a cough, turning his head to face the wall. 

He considers himself a social expert, able to break open anybody’s shell—but there were some outliers, no matter the Herculean effort undertaken to do so, who couldn’t be understood.

Namely, Ushijima Wakatoshi.

Even now, the man only spoke when necessary, gaining a reputation for being the cool headed-man on the team. The Ryujin Nippon’s captain, built like a towering boulder, acted like one too. Never one to mince words in interviews, only saying what was necessary.

It’s not like Bokuto and him are opposites.

They’re _fundamentally different_.

“I used to draw when I was a kid,” Ushijima finally speaks up. “It was an enjoyable pastime. I am not sure about my skills now, but in high school my manga skills were considered exceptional.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of confidence.”

He shrugs. “I am simply repeating what my best friend told me.”

“Best friend?” Bokuto’s eyebrows furrow at the odd choice of words.

“Yes.” A curt nod. “He’s currently studying to be a chocolatier in France right now.” 

“You know some pretty insane people!”

“He used to play on my volleyball team, so I don’t consider it strange at all.” Ushijima’s left hand clenches for a second, then releases its grip. “I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve gotten from this.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but nothing more needs to be said. Bokuto glances at him, a satisfied smile on his face.

Even if they’re fundamentally, they both share the same love for volleyball. 

That was enough.

“I’m in the same boat,” Bokuto says, flopping against his pillow. “Wanna hear about how I got with my girlfriend-not-a-girlfriend?”

“No, I don’t really care.”

“The fact that you’re serious about it…” He clutches his heart in mock agony. “Then, we should go to sleep then. I’ll get the lights.”

Ushijima pulls up his blanket to his chin. “Good night,” he says.

“Good night!”

He flips off the switch at the bedside. Without another thought, Bokuto falls asleep.  
  


* * *

  
  


“I like you,” you confess softly under the moonlight, in the silence of your apartment. “More than I expected, it seems. Kind of annoying, honestly.”

Bokuto doesn’t process what you’ve said immediately. Blinks once, twice (owlishly, one could say). 

“Are you—being serious?” he whispers. His palm grips the handle of his suitcase tighter, needing something to anchor himself with, else he thinks he’ll fly away.

“Isn’t that obvious?” You roll your eyes, though it’s a tender gesture. “When have I ever not been serious with you?”

“There’s gotta be at least four times, hasn’t there?” he answers, counting on his fingers, knowing full well he should probably answer the more pressing matter at hand.

“What chapter, what page, what line? Wait—that isn’t what’s important here.” You stare blankly at the ceiling, leaning against your desk. Just a couple months ago, he remembers looking at your paintings there. “Though if I’m being really honest, you don’t have to answer me now or anything. Just thought I’d—let you know.”

He doesn’t miss the way your voice breaks up just a bit in the middle there. It doesn’t escape his attention that there’s a smile on your lips, so fragile that if he reaches out to touch it, it might break. Doesn’t ignore the fact that suddenly, the only sound he can hear the pounding of blood in his ears so loud and so fast, it’ll burst any second now.

“Er, if you want to leave, you can—”

“No.” Bokuto cuts you off with a firm shake of his head. His grip on the suitcase handle releases, the initial shock now faded away. “I’ll stay.”

_For as long as you let me._

Your gaze falls back to him. “That so,” is all you manage out.

He takes a step closer to you, the floorboard creaking slightly underneath his weight. “I guess I thought it was obvious,” Bokuto begins, taking a deep breath. “But I didn’t want to”—he gestures vaguely—”ruin what we had.”

Of course it’s ineloquent. Words without any grace. Not like that’s been his strong suit, ever. 

But maybe that’s OK. 

“Like hell it was obvious,” you quip.

“You’re not either!”

The two of you share a moment of silence, staring at each other.

A second passes.

Another.

You stifle a chuckle.

He can’t hide his snort.

Then giggles turning into laughter come out of your mouths, shattering the silence. Bokuto doubles, his hand supporting himself on the wall, realizing that the whole thing was maybe a bit more serious than intended.

“What the fuck,” you say between wheezes. “Is this how any of _this_ is supposed to go? I feel like I’m in some really bad soap opera.”

“Something with Hara Setsuko in it?”

“You think I know the specifics?” You shake your head. “But they definitely didn’t think the dialogue through, whoever the writer was.”

“That’s what makes bad soap operas fun to watch though!” he argues. “It’s a form of art by itself!”

“One hell of line coming from somebody like you.”

He grins. “I learned from the best!”

He used to think he wanted to be filled up with so much love, it overflows him. Relationships are something you dedicate your entirety to. That he’ll take and take and take. Love is special, ideal, _perfect._

He’s selfish. Too much so.

 _Lonely_. This was the only way to cure it.

But you showed him a different way. That there’s comfort in the silence, affection in the small gestures, security in the languid actions. That love can exist in the quietude, humming softly in the undercurrents, and it’s just as, maybe even more so powerful than the grand declarations and large gestures.

Love is just what it is.

“Hey,” he says, taking another step closer to you so he’s facing you. “When’d you start? With the whole _feelings_ thing.”

“I’m not sure, really.” You shrug, looking somewhere off to the distance. “Kinda just happened, I guess. Crept out of nowhere. Maybe the day I texted you to leave me alone.”

Bokuto raises an eyebrow.

A sheepish look appears on your features. “I’m not really good with the whole communication business, in case you couldn’t tell.”

“It’s fine. You don’t have to say anything else.” And it really is. He’s happy, _really_ happy he can have this.

You shake your head, biting your lip. “Nah, I should. You deserve to hear it. Won’t take too long either.” Your shoulders sag with an exhale.

“Honestly, I was scared that the whole thing was going too well. Like there was going to be some big problem coming up, I don’t know. I wanted to stop it before it could get any further—but I guess in a way, I was causing the problem myself.” Your hands slide outwards on the desk, as if waiting for something.

“In the first place, I’m still not entirely sure what I want from this whole thing, I guess. I don’t think I would mind being in a relationship, but at the same time, I still don’t know.” A short chuckle bursts forth, sounding a little bit pained. “Maybe even telling you all of this was a bad idea. It’s pretty late, after all.”

He stills, breath catching in his throat.

Your eyes finally turn to focus on him. There’s a twinkle in it that he doesn’t think he’s seen before. “But, I don’t think I regret telling you it either. Not just because you feel the same. Just felt like if I didn’t say it right now, I wouldn’t know when else to say it. It’s weird, isn’t it? First I’m yelling your ears off, then telling you to go away. Next I’m telling you I like you, and then—”

You don’t finish the sentence, but you don’t need to.

He knows.

“No need to rush,” Bokuto says, reaching tentatively for your hand. When he clasps his fingers with yours, you don’t move it away. Closer, closer. “That was partially my fault too. I was—being kind of selfish. Pushing you forward.”

He was blind to the little moments, choosing to focus, to chase, to _believe_ , in an ideal love.

And truth be told, that’s not ideal. Doesn’t exist in the first place. 

It’s not like _this_ is an ideal one either. Some days, he can’t hear the love, no matter how hard he strained his ears to listen. 

Kuroo said you were plain. Bokuto thinks that’s alright, because he doesn’t need anything special, not anymore. _Completely ordinary_.

“We don’t have to be an official thing right now,” he continues. his finger delicately tracing over yours. “We’ll figure it out along the way. Oh—” he suddenly looks up. “Plus, might be kind of bad with the press right now too, if we announced it. All the international tournaments are coming up right now.” 

“I forgot you guys actually have a social presence to keep up with…” your voice trails off. “Well, that works for me. Not quite ready to be bombarded by your fanbase.”

“It’s not that big!”

“It’s bigger than mine though.”

Maybe under different circumstances, Bokuto would’ve pushed for more. Would’ve wanted to put a label on this, to show you off for the whole world to see.

“Then can I be your boyfriend-not-a-boyfriend right now?” he suggests.

But right now, he’s content with how things are. 

“That is one hell of a name,” you reply, the corner of your lip quirking up. “But that works with me.”

“We can shorten it when we’re ready.” Bokuto smiles. “I like you too, you see.”

You can’t hide a small snort, and he wants to keep the sound forever. “I hope you do.”

The two of you are _together_ , in _this moment_ , and that’s all that matters.

“Are you still scared?” he asks, squeezing your hand as he pulls it close to him. You stand, face closer to his than he thought and shake your head, almost imperceptibly so. 

“No,” you say quietly, looking straight at him. “Not anymore.”

He likes you. _Really_ does, and the way your eyes glisten tell him that it’s alright.

“Now I’m kind of annoyed you said it before me though,” Bokuto murmurs with a soft smile, his forehead touching yours. “Feels like I’ve lost something.”

“That so?” Closer, closer. Your breath brushes across his face. “You better hurry to catch up then.”

“Don’t worry.” Bokuto’s not sure who starts it, but your lips meet, slowly then surely easing into a kiss. 

For just the slightest of seconds, he breaks away, studying each and every line in your eyes.

“We’ve got a lot of time.”  
  


* * *

  
  


Bokuto wakes up at eight in the morning, feeling _somebody_ against his chest. It’s a warm, cozy feeling that almost aches his heart, so much so that he doesn’t want to leave. Still, he untangles his arms from yours, pulling himself up from your bed. 

You shift slightly, slowly opening your eyes and blink away the remains of sleep.

“Ah, did I wake you up?” he exclaims. “Good morning!”

“Ugh.” You yawn. “Too bright.”

“Sorry!” Bokuto grins. “You mind if I eat breakfast with you? I can make it!”

You turn to the side with a groan. “Do whatever you want.”

He takes that as a yes and slides off your bed.   
  


* * *

  
  


After your initial grogginess disappears, you stumble out of your bed to the sound of sizzling and walk out to the kitchen, finding Bokuto dancing over the stove as he’s humming some incoherent tune, spatula in hand. It’s _almost_ endearing, except for the fact that—

“Uh… How many eggs did you put in there?” you ask, a hint of trepidation in your voice.

“Four for me! And two for you! If that’s alright.” He flips over two eggs in the pan. “I also used your carrots and broccoli for a stir-fry and went over to my place to get some fruit! You don’t have that many healthy choices in your fridge, that’s not a good thing!”

You blink. “Since when did you become a healthy person?”

“I took nutrition classes with my national team a couple months ago and learned a lot from there!” He brandishes the spatula with a flourish.

You nod in response, unsure of what else to say. “I forgot to mention this last night—” you begin, rubbing your eyes. “‘M gonna be staying in Kyoto for the next four months, starting the first day of August. Way to kick things off, I know.”

He freezes at your words. The eggs continue to sizzle and you have to remind him _hey, Kou? Those eggs are gonna burn_ before he regains his composure.

“What for?” Bokuto asks, turning off the stove. Luckily, the eggs aren’t too burnt.

“Applied for an artist residency there. Got accepted sometime during the trip, but didn’t want to bring it up then.”

He slides the eggs onto the plates. “Artist… residency?”

“Yeah. The place gives you a studio and a room to stay in. Other artists are living there, you basically make art there with them. I guess it’s like your training camps?” You take your plate to the couch, Bokuto trailing right behind. “We have a group exhibition held at the end of it. Thought I’d give it a shot, not much else to do anyways. I got no offers for solo exhibitions so—” you take a seat. “This was the next best plan.”

“Are those hard to get?”

You nod. “I’m still pretty new in the scene, not really well-defined or anything. Gotta build up my portfolio first, get in contact with some studios and galleries.”

“I see…” He frowns. “I don’t really think I get it, but good luck! It would’ve been nice if you could’ve come to Jakarta or Italy though...”

You bite a smile as you bite down on your egg. It’s surprisingly good. “That’s still a bit too out of my budget. And no—” you raise your free hand. “Not accepting any favors this time around. I’ll go there with my own hands.”

“Saying it like that sounds like you’re going to rock climb over there!” Bokuto takes a large bite, practically swallowing his egg whole.

“ _That’s_ what you say?!”

He laughs, taking a seat right next to you. “Then I’ll be looking forward to when you can come! You can see my awesome spikes on a really big stage! Can I go see your group exhibition?”

“Don’t you have the next V. League season starting then?” You move onto the broccoli—the soy sauce added is a bit too much. “I’m still not sure when the date for this is held.”

Bokuto’s hair droops down a bit. “But it’s your first one…”

“Well—” you shrug. “I’m not saying it’s impossible to make it, just nearly improbable.”

He grins. “Then I’m gonna do my best to turn that into a certainty!”

It’s still a bit weird, how _nothing_ changes and then _everything_ does, and then nothing changes again. One night on the same bed together doesn’t make a big difference anymore, not when the two of you shared rooms for the past couple days. 

Still, you’re not sure what would change in the first place.

Though if there’s one thing—

“But Kyoto?” Bokuto’s eyes narrow in thought as he scarfs down his carrots. “They’re all really passive aggressive there, aren’t they? Are you gonna be OK?”

“You’ve got it the opposite way there.” You clench your chopsticks a bit tighter, a grin spreading across your face. “Kyoto’s gonna be OK with me whether they like it or not.”

He looks at you for a couple seconds in silence, then bursts out into laughter.

“What’s so funny there?” you groan.

“No, I just wasn’t expecting you to say something like that!” he says in between bursts of giggles. “Where’d you get that from?”

“I wonder,” you say drily, finishing up your breakfast. “And I’m mostly staying with foreigners. Don’t think any of the Japanese artists are Kyoto natives.”

“Foreigners, huh!” Bokuto’s eyes sparkle. “I tried picking up some Italian recently! _Buenos dias!_ ”

“That’s Spanish, isn’t it? Where the hell were you looking?”

He laughs. “Just a joke! I know its _Guten tag!_ ”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

It’s warmer than normal in your apartment, and not just because of the sun filtering in through the window.   
  


* * *

  
  


Their first couple days at the Asian Games goes as expected, taking down Myanmar and Kazakhstan, though winning by just one set. Late nights at the athletes’ village are filled with parties at the center courtyard where a large stage is set up for karaoke, complete with stage lights and a large projection screen on the back. _Fantasia_ is the name for the festival and Bokuto swore he saw Yao Ming in the crowd once.

One night he jumps up onto the stage, joined by his teammates for—

“Pen Pineapple Apple Pen!” 

“Oi Bokkun! Your pen fell!” Atsumu cackles, pointing at the fallen object. Komori’s also dancing along, though he’s mostly just watching Bokuto with peals of laughter. Suna’s filming the whole thing on his phone. There’s a sizable crowd at the courtyard tonight, all sharing the same enthusiasm. Once the song’s over, they return back to the crowd with chuckles.

He’s announced as the winner for tonight’s karaoke contest, to which he politely turns down the offer for an encore. They give him an _angklung_ , a wooden instrument with two bamboo flutes attached to a thin frame, as a prize. As the team members walk back to the apartment—

“So how do you play this thing?” he asks, curiously examining the instrument. 

“Beats me,” Atsumu says. “Looks like you can shake it?"

He does, a bit too chaotically. Nothing sounding remotely like a note comes out. Bokuto passes it on to Atsumu, who doesn’t fare any better.

“Hand it over to me,” Aran says with a sigh. Atsumu complies, curiosity piqued.

“This is how you do it.” He grabs a hold of the bottom and top rungs, then shakes it rapidly. A singular vibrating note plays out.

“Wow, when’d you learn that?” Atsumu asks, eyes widening.

“My dad travelled a lot because of his job and brought this back to me,” explains Aran, handing the instrument back to Bokuto. “Usually you have multiple of these in an orchestra all playing different notes.”

“You’re pretty smart, aren’t you?”

“Who do you take me as?!”

The small group reaches the elevator. A group of Taipei athletes step out and they exchange hellos.

“Oh, Suna! Can you send me the video you took?” Bokuto asks as they step inside the elevator. Somebody pushes the button for their floor and the doors close.

“It’s already in the groupchat,” Suna replies, twirling his phone. “Atsumu’s bad karaoke performance is there too.”

“What was that?” The man in question turns to look at Suna with a face of irritation. “Watch your trap! I didn’t do too bad! Better than ‘Samu’s at least, I’m sure!”

“I sent it to him, he said he’s better.”

“Why’d you do that? He’s a shitfaced-liar, don’t listen to him.”

“You’re one to talk!” Aran interjects.

The next couple days are spent in a similar manner, either watching other volleyball games going on or at practice until the 26th comes, signalling the beginning of the semifinals. Their first opponent is against India, who they take down swiftly 3-1. Next up is Qatar, which on paper they should’ve won, but—

“Are you kidding me,” declares Atsumu after the game in the locker room. The rest of the team is mostly silent, though the defeat still lingers in the air—Kageyama’s scowl is a bit angrier than normal, Komori’s smile a bit more muted, Aran a bit more subdued.

“We’ll get them next time,” Bokuto says as he finishes changing out of his uniform. “Don’t mind this.”

“There’s still the fifth place match too,” Komori calls out, some lockers down. “We gotta try hard there.”

“Still could’ve won the whole thing though.” The setter slams his locker door shut. “Well, whatever.” He huffs out a breathy exhale and is the first to leave, a sour look on his face.

“What should I do for the rest of the day…” Bokuto wonders aloud, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder. “Maybe I should watch the water polo matches?”

“You’re not going to check up on Atsumu-senpai?” Kageyama asks. 

“He’ll be fine, don’t worry about it,” he replies. “Tsumtsum’s a pretty strong guy mentally now!”

“I don’t really see that much of a difference,” Suna mutters underneath his breath, next to him. “Well, once he gets his hands on some food he’ll be back to normal again.”

The final match happens and they win against Indonesia in another five set match, securing fifth place this year. 

But they _should’ve won_ the entire thing _._ Fifth isn’t first, no matter how you look at it.

And if they didn’t win this—

How was FIVB going to end up?

* * *

  
  


“Hey. Is this a good time to talk right now?”

“Er—guess so. What’s up?”

“Do you have recommendations for draft pencils and pens for manga?”

“Recommendations… if you’re using mechanical ones, those Bentel ones aren’t too bad. For pens, Furetako fineliners or Angstrom ones are pretty good. Wait—” you pause in confusion. “Why are you calling me about this? Don’t manga artists work mostly digital now?”

“Well—“ There’s a small exhale on the other end. “I, uh, actually wanted to talk about something else.

You wait.

“I heard about you and Bokuto-san the other day… he told me through a text message. Congratulations.”

“Oh.” You shift your phone’s position on your ear. “I don’t really know if that’s something to be congratulated over, but thanks, I guess.”

Another pause, this time longer. Your mouth goes dry, unsure of _what_ , or whether you should say anything in the first place.

“If you hurt him in any way, I won’t let you off easy,” Akaashi finally says, the line crackling a bit.

“Is that a threat?”

“Make of it what you want. But—” he clears his throat. “I’m glad for the both of you.”

“You really have to make it sound so formal? Sounds like you’re sending me off to some faraway place.”

He pauses for a bit. “Aren’t you in Kyoto right now? You’re already pretty far away.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. 

Maybe it’ll take another six, seven years for this to feel _normal_ again, after everything that’s happened. Or maybe it won’t, because the fact is that some things can never go back to how they once were. 

“Sorry,” is all you’re able to say, and you think it’s the furthest thing from being the right word in this situation.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “You’ve been through a lot.”

“You as well, you hear me? You too. I’m in no place to tell you this, but don’t let”—your throat chokes up—” _this_ be what stops you.”

You think, for the first time since the start of the phone call, he has a smile on his face.

“I’ll keep it in mind. Goodbye then.”

He hangs up, and you’re left alone in the studio room, staring at your latest work. The full-length mirrors spanning a wall reflect your paint-splattered appearance back at you. 

“(Surname)-san!” somebody calls out, knocking on the studio door. “Lunch is ready!”

“Be there in a bit!” you reply, setting down your paintbrush and untying your apron. You brush off your pants and take a final glance at the painting you’re working on. It’s on a canvas much larger than the ones for your graduation show, though still considerably smaller than life-size.

Without another look back, you exit the studio room and walk to the communal dining room out front, washing your hands at the sink. A couple of the other artists are already sitting, chatting with pleasant tones.

“Oh, (Surname)-san,” somebody says. “We’re going out later today to take a calligraphy class nearby, wanna come? We get a half discount on it.”

“Yeah, sure thing.” You take your pick from the assortment of food laid out in aluminum foil trays today, cooked by one of the artists, into your bowl. “That reminds me, we should stop by the store soon to pick up some ink, Leah-san asked me to do so.” After deciding on your drink, you head over to an empty seat at the table.

“Sounds good. So, as I was talking about…”

Being in the company of artists working with a wide range of mediums forced you to learn from them. It’s not like your art block’s completely gone. What pieces you’re going to make for the group exhibition, you’re not sure yet either. With the theme of “Art and the Environment” the only limitation, there’s many different routes to take.

Every artist here is for the sole purpose of making, _creating._

Growing together.

Isn’t that all that mattered?  
  


* * *

  
  


_It wasn’t enough._

“If I’m being dead honest with you guys, these results were expected.”

_The opening day for FIVB—_

“We’re a new team, just rebranded. New players and faces all around, many of whom you’ve only known through the other side of the net.”

_3-0 by Italy._

_The points didn’t even go past 25._

_You couldn’t dream of a more perfect start for the home country._

“So when that happens, you just play your hearts out on that court. Because nobody’s expecting you all to do anything. That means we can do just about _everything_. Go wild. If we can at least win, it’ll be good for us.”

_Japan sweeps Dominican Republic a couple days later, no sign of the match from the first day affecting their play._

_“Next is Slovenia, right?” somebody says in the locker room. “Apparently this year’s their first qualification for the tournament.”_

_“Well, we already know how that’s going to turn out.”_

_It’s a 1-3, with Slovenia whisking the ground beneath their feet._

_Belgium, a couple days later, is the same story._

“If we lost, nobody’s going to blame us either. They’ll say _it was expected_.”

_And with Argentina’s win over Slovenia the next day, Japan is effectively kicked out of Pool A._

_“Let’s make this a good one,” somebody says with a weary voice._

_In five sets they surprisingly take down Argentina, and it’s then everybody realizes—_

_“Hey. Are we unlucky, or just that bad?”_

_“Neither, I think. They’re just better.”_

_They step out of the arena late at night, duffel bags on their shoulders heavier than normal, disappointment and resignment swirling around everybody’s heads. The street’s silent, only the row of trees lining the roads rustling around._

_“Ah, my birthday’s in two days,” Bokuto says out of the blue. “It’s my first one overseas.”_

_“No way did you just remember,” Komori quips. “Have you picked out a restaurant yet?”_

_“I’m just gonna throw a dart and hope for the best!” he replies, earning him a couple chuckles._

“But—” the coach’s eyes take on a steely glint underneath the light of the empty gymnasium. “Once you become complicit in defeat, that means you’ve really lost. Remember what happened these past few days. Don’t let it overtake you, but don’t forget it. 

“All I’m asking everyone here to do is grow. That’s all you can do. Grow until you’ve hit your limit, and then shoot past that. It’s the only way to win. You all are dismissed. Good work."  
  


* * *

  
  


He arrives back in his apartment at night, greeted by an innocuous-looking package shaped as a stout cylinder in front of his door. Curiously, he picks it up as he unlocks his door. There’s no return address, only his printed on the label. 

Once he’s inside, Bokuto pulls out the contents of the package, revealing a rolled-up scroll. With care he unrolls it, the scroll extending the length of his wingspan, and in thick strokes of black ink—

 _The Way of the Ace_. Written on a sheet of cream-colored paper, set on a red fabric not unlike their team’s color.

A calligraphy scroll.

Bokuto holds it up carefully, admiring the brushwork. There’s a note attached to the side on a colored Post-It, scrawled in a handwriting he’s intimately familiar with.

 _Get them next time_ is all that’s written on it, along with a small heart at the end.

A small smile appears on his lips as he clutches the sides of the scroll a bit tighter. The string of perpetual defeats would’ve caused him to sink into an Emo Mood years ago. Even now, it still threatens to burst out onto the scene, enveloping him in a _nothing-matters-anymore_ attitude.

But—after all this time, he’s pretty ordinary now.

No time for regrets. 

He’s _Bokuto Koutarou,_ an ace with no strings attached.

No matter what happens.

He sets down the scroll on the wooden coffee table, to be hung up later. Out of habit, he walks over to the balcony door and slides it open, greeted by the late September weather.

In the dark sky, there’s just the faint speck of a star next to a sliver of the moon. Everything’s quiet, the apartment buildings sprawled out in front of him mostly dark, save for a lone couple lights still turned on. Everything's silent at this time, though if he strained his ears hard enough, he can still hear the large rushing waterfall from the Asian Games, the cheers of the crowd in the arena, and most importantly, your voice.

Bokuto’s half-expecting you to pop out from your apartment, maybe with a couple cans of beer.

You don’t, however. The view of the room your balcony door offers is pitch-black, not a single thing in motion. 

Of course he misses you. That night when the two of you confessed was only two months ago, but it feels even longer. With your conflicting schedules, nothing’s really happened since then. His hand clenches, still remembering how your hand felt in his.

But even though you’re not here right now, strangely he’s alright with that. You have your own life after all, but most importantly, Bokuto knows you’re coming back someday.

 _Two more months_. Just two more, and he can see you again.

Bokuto walks back inside.  
  


* * *

  
  


The night of the group exhibition swings around quickly with the end of November. Fate played a particularly nasty hand as Bokuto’s first game of the season coincided with the day. You ended up taking a video of the gallery before its opening, explaining some interesting tidbits for him.

“That for your special friend?” Iketani, the only other Japanese at the studio asks as you finish filming. He’s in his late-thirties, though his bright appearance made him look younger.

“Something like that,” you reply, putting your phone away. “He’s up in Miyagi right now, so couldn’t come down here in time.”

“I’m still surprised you managed to snag a professional athlete. Is there even any mutual ground between the two of you?”

“Probably not.” You suppress a chuckle, letting your feet take you nowhere particular around the gallery. “But he listens to me. I think that’s the most important part.”

Iketani smiles softly. “You know, Martin-san was going off the other day about how Japanese people don’t say the words ‘ _I love you’_ that much,” he starts, his hands wrapped behind his neck. “Apparently they say it a lot in America—to their lovers, friends, family members. In some cases, it can even replace their ‘goodbye’.”

“That so? Seems like they have a lot of it to pass around. A lot more than we do, at leawst.”

Your feet stop in front of your painting, unsurprisingly. It’s a collage of the sights you saw at Wakkanai, from the starry night sky painted up top to paper cutouts of the city down below. 

“I wonder,” replies Iketani, also stopping. “Can’t you show it in actions too? _Love_ works both as a noun and a verb, after all.”

In the background of the painting, so seemingly insignificant you have to take a closer look to see it, there’s the silhouettes of two people sitting side-by-side, looking upwards.

You don’t answer him, because the answer isn't something to be said out loud.  
  


* * *

  
  


The center of the universe isn’t made for people like him.

Bokuto’s spike slams down, received by Hoshiumi. It’s sent back over the net, and Atsumu tosses it over to Bokuto again. _Go clear your name,_ the setter seems to be saying.

And Bokuto dinks it over the net.

_World!_

For Akaashi, he’s always been content with his spot amongst millions at the fringes.

At the match point, Romero slams the ball past the two blockers. Sakusa and Inumaki are too far back to get it, but Hinata slides through with a bump.

“Bokkun!” somebody calls out. Bokuto bumps the ball back up.

“Hinata!” he calls out.

The man _flies_ , swinging his arm down. Kageyama’s there to block it, but Hinata’s foot flashes out to kick up the ball again. Atsumu’s the one to get the receive. His ten fingers touch the ball. A mass of orange dashes by to the other end of the court. 

_No way—_

But Atsumu sets the ball to Bokuto, who leaps up with sweat flying off his forehead and a large grin on his face. 

The yellow-and-blue ball meets his hand. 

The blockers aren’t quick enough.

With a reverberating sound, it slams down onto the court.

Nobody’s there to receive it.

_Game over._

The crowd goes into a frenzy all around them as the final whistle blows. The scoreboard flips over, signaling the Black Jackals' crushing win for the first game of the season. Both Akaashi and Udai stand up, clapping with smiles on their faces as they watch the teams shake hands and disperse off the court. Kageyama goes over to sign autographs and Akaashi briefly thinks he sees a head of gray hair in the line too. Hinata’s approached by Kuroo, looking like a conniving man as always. 

“Akaashi, I know you said since we came all the way up here to Sendai, we should get drinks at Kokubuncho and return in the morning,” Udai says, as the crowd begins to filter out. “But I think I’m going to head back now and work on the script for the last chapter of _Zomb’ish_. Once that’s done...”

Udai’s face momentarily twists into a pained anguish, forming a fist against his chest. “Once it’s... over—”

All things come to an end. _Zomb’ish_ ’s run, due to increasingly lowered rankings, got cut from Weekly Jump. Probably an expected outcome, all things considered. Rarely do a manga artist’s first work become a big hit.

His eyes take on a determined glean, perhaps inspired by the game he just watched. Bokuto was a candidate for being the basis of his next protagonist, after all. “I’m going to start drawing storyboards for my next ideas.”

“Knowing that an end must come is all the more reason to begin anew,” Akaashi says, not just to the manga artist. “Let’s keep giving it our very best.”

Because there’s nothing else he can do.

* * *

  
  


“Thank you for the interview, Bokuto-senshu.”

“Sure thing!’ Bokuto practically jumps up from his chair. “Let’s go get some cow tongue now! I’m hungry!”

Akaashi smiles.

“Sounds good. Let’s get going then.”

They exit the small room, Udai bidding the both of them farewell, and the two head off to the Sendai entertainment district as the sun disappears over the horizon. The nightlife glows with neon hues from the signs plastered all over the cramped buildings. Run-down izakayas and family-owned stores are peppered all over the place. 

“Hey,” Akaashi finally says as they turn onto a small alleyway. “I’m only going to say this once.”

Bokuto turns to look at him quizzically, his face a muted orange underneath the lights. “What’s up?”

The phone call those four months ago left Akaashi in an odd state of mind. But _confused_ was the last of it. Strangely enough, he already saw it coming—it was just a matter of time before it was cemented.

So he doesn’t tell Bokuto.

“She’s my _childhood friend_ ”—Akaashi almost can’t say the words, but he chokes it out anyways—”so if you hurt her, I won’t be quite so friendly to you.”

He doesn’t say your name in fear that everything he’s feeling will well up again. Swallows it down, even if the pungent taste is overwhelming. Shuts the lid on it tightly and tosses the box into the depths of his heart.

_Because if I hadn’t met you again—_

“Yeah. I know,” Bokuto replies. “I’ll hold you to that.”

And right there, Akaashi burns away his copy of Bokuto’s Moods: A Visual Novel, letting the pages disintegrate into nothingness.

“So? Have you been talking to anyone?” he continues.

“No, not particularly,” Akaashi answers. “I’m still a bit too busy with my job.”

Because if he hadn’t met you again, everything would be different. If he hadn’t gone to your show, hadn’t answered your calls, maybe he wouldn’t ever realize he was ever in love with you. This walk to Kokubuncho might've take place under a different context.

What if that did happen?

Except there’s no point dwelling on the _what-ifs_ , when a _today_ exists.

In this _today_ , even after he told you he’d fall out of love with you—

Well, things are never that simple.

“Makes sense,” is all Bokuto says, and maybe it’s better like that. “Oh! There’s the restaurant! I hope there’s still seats available!”

Akaashi’s a star just like any other.

But even he has a purpose too, he thinks.

Even if he hasn’t exactly found it yet.  
  


* * *

  
  


It’s too late at night when you finally return to Ueno at the start of December, the autumn air chilling you to the bone. Instead of going to your apartment first, however—

You knock on Bokuto’s door with three sharp raps. Feet glued to the concrete, though without the want of running away. From the view of Bokuto’s window, it looks like there’s nobody inside.

But still, you hope.

And it’s answered minutes later.

Bokuto opens the door, the yellow-toned lamp illuminating only the side of his face.

“Hey.” You raise a hand in greeting. “I’m back.”

He doesn’t respond, instead only staring at you in shock.

“Uh. Bo? You there?” You wave your hand in front of him, trying to get his attention. “Earth to Bokuto Koutarou?” Still no answer, and then—”Kou? I’ve made my grand return.”

“(Name)?” he finally whispers out hoarsely.

“Yeah. That’s me. In the flesh,” you say, a grin forming on your face. “Who else would it be?”

Bokuto slowly steps forward, still not saying anything. You’re confused as to what he wants to do, until—

“Welcome back,” he murmurs into your ear, embracing you with all of his might. His hands clench the fabric of your coat, as if _needing_ to desperately cling onto something. “I missed you.”

“I’m home,” you reply, face buried into his chest. Your hands find comfort around his broad back, the softness of his shirt warm against your chilled hands. “Missed you too.”

_It’s going to be alright._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a round of applause for the closure! the PPAP thing happened IRL, [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kjiMSS4rSl4&t=608s)'s the link, start at 8:10
> 
> on another note, here's to the q&a ([x](https://forms.gle/mQDr9VK4hjXzezap8))—everything's anonymous and you can edit your response afterwards, so please don't hesitate to fill it out if you want to ask me just about anything! i'm more than happy to answer. form submissions will close probably two weeks from now when the epilogue drops, semester's starting again soo we'll see how that goes.


	23. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The universe was messing around with you today; there were no two ways around it.

“Just a little bit more to the right, please.”

“Like this?”

“Yeah, that’s good.”

You get off the small stepladder, dusting off your hands and taking a final look at the newly-hung painting on the blank wall. “Then, all done here then.”

“Thanks.” Azumane hands you a cup of steaming tea. “You’ve been a really big help.”

“Only doing my job, that's all. You’ve got a nice place here,” you comment, looking around the small clothing shop. A cluster of mannequins stand at the very center, sporting summer fashions you’re not sure if you’d want to wear. On the sides are racks of clothes and other accessories hanging against wood plank walls. “Feels pretty cozy. I’m surprised you were able to start your own shop so early though.”

“Well, this is more of a collaboration between the other designers at my studio, so it’s not technically my own…” his voice trails off. “But I’m glad you like it.”

“Still pretty amazing, no matter how you look at it. I’m still here with a year left in school…” From the cup, you take a long sip. The familiar taste washes over your tongue and down your throat. “BFA, MFA, doesn’t feel like there’s a big difference between the two.”

Azumane nods. “I feel pretty lucky I was able to get that job in the atelier right after graduation, else I think I’d still be in school.”

“Way to rub it in.”

“Ah, sorry!” A genuine look of panic flashes across his face. “And you were just talking about it—”

“I’m just messing with you.” You lightly nudge his elbow. “It’s really not that bad. I don’t think I’d know what else to do, honestly. I’ve already got an idea for the thesis too.”

“I see.” His eyes travel to the ceiling, looking at the dangling chandelier. “You’re not gonna do something absolutely crazy like 130 pieces again, will you?”

“As if,” you scoff. “I’m trying to do the whole living thing here. That was a one-time thing.”

He lets out a thoughtful hum, drumming his fingers on the counter. “I don’t think you ever told me the reason why you used 130.”

“Oh, that? Polaris will take 13,000 years to move before a new star takes its place as the north star. That’s all there was to it.”

It’s not like all the stress and troubles of being an artist disappeared overnight. Even now, there’s still some days, weeks, where you wonder just what the point of it all is. Some things don’t change. This is no different.

But some things _don’t change,_ and you’re sticking with art until you can’t.

“North star… That reminds me, I’ll be heading up to the north pole this summer with a friend of mine,” Azumane remarks, the corners of his lips curling upwards. “I’ll be missing the Olympics, but I think a world tour is pretty cool in its own right. I’ve got enough money saved up now.”

You turn to him with a mix of bewilderment and disapproval hardening on your features. “Something happened to your brain? Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m perfectly healthy, last time I checked.”

“You should go check again!”

He laughs, the smile turning into a beam. “I’m being serious right now. I think I’ll”—his voice shifts to a more embarrassed tone—”propose to him once we’re there.”

“That doesn't make it any better.” Your shoulders hunch over as if a cloud of gloom weighs down your back. “Feels like everybody’s getting married left and right now. The Sakamotos adopted a kid recently, didn’t they? What happened to everybody saying they won’t settle down?”

“But you and Bokuto became official last year too, didn’t you? Sugawara called me in the middle of the night when he heard about that.”

“That and this are different matters!” you argue, crossing your arms. “Also, he called you too? He was screaming in my ear for a solid 10 minutes. Never knew he could get so loud.”

“He doesn’t look like the person to do so, right?” Azumane strokes his chin. “Back in high school, he once yelled at us to get our act together. On camera too. The referee got kind of mad at him. Anyways, are you going in person to watch the Olympics?”

“Depends on my mood.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

The front door opens and a customer walks in, dressed in a hippy outfit vaguely resembling a Harajuku ensemble. “Welcome,” Azumane says, immediately bowing.

“That’s my cue to leave then.” With gusto, you drain the last of the tea, setting down the cup. “Don’t freeze to death up at the North Pole, alright? Take care.”

He gives you a wave. “I'll take note of it. See you later!”

With a gentle push, you open the door, the bell tinkling behind you. Shimokitazawa’s afternoon bustle greets you, people and bikes alike littered on the cramped walkway. As you start walking to the bus station, your hands make their way into your pockets. Your left hand brushes against a smooth slip of paper, slightly crumpled.

_Is that even a question?_   
  


* * *

  
  


It’s not like the team to believe in miracles, not when they’ve never been granted one. For Ryujin Nippon, they’ve learned through countless failures and defeats that nothing’s ever given to you.

Today’s no different as they stand on the familiar turf of the Ariake Arena with the stadium’s max capacity in the background. Each year brought more and more people to the stands, something Bokuto welcomes with open arms. Bright lights shine down on him, rivalling that of a blazing sun. He wipes the sweat off his brow, the sensation that his legs were going to give out long past now.

Bokuto’s labored breaths course through his whole body ih ragged motions as he squints at the scoreboard hanging above. None of the numbers from the four sets before are processed in his brain, only the 33-33 signalling the scoreline from this set. Right below are the sky blues of the Argentinian team, drenched in equal amounts of sweat.

Three years ago, they took down the team in 5 sets. Since then, Argentina’s had two consecutive wins over them. Ryujin Nippon had danced to their tune each time at the hands of none other than Oikawa Tooru.

“Wow, this is pretty rough,” Bokuto mutters with a chuckle, though it’s mirthless. 

This game’s not the medal match. Not even the first one either. But it’s the last of the preliminary round and whoever wins here would advance to quarters.

So _damn_ if they weren’t going to win, not when they’ve _barely_ missed out on advancing.

Not when, _after so many years_ , they managed to claw their way back to this place.

Not when _it’s all they’ll do._

Miracles don’t exist, after all.

_One more point._

The whistle blows.

_You’re the ace, aren’t you?_

He throws up the ball.

_Yeah, I am._

* * *

  
  


“Yo. You did well today,” you say over the phone. “That spike where you went _swoosh_ was pretty cool.”

“I know right!” he says, a smile creeping up on him. “Tsumtsum’s sets are always super easy to hit. But—” he flexes his hands. “I think Akaashi’s are always going to be the best.”

“Even after all this time?”

He hums in agreeance. “I’ll say that even when I’m 130 years old!”

Bokuto hears you chuckle. “I’ll be holding you to that then.”

“Didn’t you say you were going out by the time you’re 40 though? How’s that gonna work out?”

“I’ll make sure to haunt you nicely from time-to-time in the afterlife.”  
  


* * *

  
  


The universe was messing with you today; there were no two ways around it.

No matter how you write the word _vacation_ , there’s a sense of relaxation in it. The word 休 is from the radicals ‘man’ and ‘tree’. Man leaning against a tree, at rest. 暇 with the radical ‘sun’. Put the two next to each other and you get vacation.

Except you’re currently on _anything but_.

The flight was already delayed—by _four hours_ —thanks to inclement weather. It’s a miracle it’s not cancelled, but maybe it would’ve been better if it was. For the entire duration of the flight, a crying baby was (obviously) present. The taxi out to the hotel was subsequently delayed too thanks to the snow, which the taxi driver thought it adequate to start chatting about some topic that completely flew over your head. Even Bokuto was a bit out of it, doing his best to nod along and respond with casually-tossed agreements.

You hit the bed as soon as you arrived at the inn, completely unresponsive to any outside stimulus. Once you woke up, Bokuto was gone, any sense of where—or what—you were doing fizzled out of your mind.

 _Oh,_ you dimly register as you turn your head to the window, the white scenery outside greeting you as you blink away the remains of sleep in your eyes, _this is Otaru._

The past three years had been both too busy for you and Bokuto to return back to Hokkaido thanks to tournaments and exhibitions. Only this year did your schedules finally grant you a breath of an opportunity to relax, even if only for three days tacked on at the end of the year like some pitiful consolation prize.

Lying stomach-up on the bed, your hand fumbles around for your phone on the nightstand. He sent you a text—” _I’m going out to explore for a bit! Be back in four hours!_ ”—three hours ago, meaning you still had some time to kill. You peel yourself up from the bed, slinging on your coat, deciding to head out and clear your head for a bit before Bokuto comes back.

Otaru is quiet, in the way that makes even the loudest person understand how to whisper.

Heaps of snow are piled up against the sidewalks, clinging against houses. Most of the lights are still on, warm glows illuminating windows as the people inside prepare for the new year. Tiny snowmen are scattered around like stand-ins for the people walking around, probably to remain standing for a long while. The small town looks to be frozen in time, as if the whole place is encased in a giant snow globe. You half-expect the night sky to start sending down snow, but the full moon glowing a pale yellow proves you otherwise. 

Cold air stings your cheeks and nips at the tips of your ears. You burrow your hands deeper into your pockets as your feet take you to a convenience store. _Probably would be nice to get a couple drinks_ , you think as the doors slide open. Somebody lazily greets you inside, the flood of warmth embracing you a nice welcome. 

You walk over to where the drinks are stored. Rows of colors and brand names flash by your eyes as you scan every row and shelf for your favorite juice, but—

_You’re kidding me, right?_

It’s not there.

A strong sense of deja vu washes over you as you remember that one morning running around Tokyo to find the juice. If you had told yourself back then you’d be in the same situation three years later, back in your hometown with your loud neighbor, you’re not sure if you’d have believed yourself.

Then again, who could ever predict the future?

 _But there is no goddamn way I’m doing all of_ that _again_ , you think as you turn away from the drinks and decide to pick up a couple snacks instead and head over to the checkout counter. _I should just accept this misfortune._

“Thank you and happy New Year,” the clerk says with a stifled yawn after you pay for the snacks. You return it with a smile and exit the small convenience store, back into the night.

Your phone in your pocket buzzes. You pull it out, seeing an incoming call from Bokuto.

“Wanna go see the first sunrise later? The ropeway’s gonna be open at 6 AM!”

“You do realize that’s still like, hours away?” you groan as you begin your walk back to the inn. “Are you sure you can wake up in time?”

“We could build snowmen somewhere? Saw a couple when I was walking around.”

Your foot sends up a flurry of snow from the ground. “Aren’t we a bit too old for that?”

“You’re never too old to build snowmen!”

“No—” you shake your head. “What I’m saying is, we should think bigger than a snowman. Sculpt a Rodin or something. With exact proportions.”

Bokuto falls silent for a bit, perhaps trying to process what you’ve said. “Er—I’m not against it or anything, but is there a reason why?”

“Tachibana built a Venus de Milo out in Italy and damned if I don’t beat her.”

“I see!” A sudden surge of determination rushes through his voice. “I’ll do my best to help you out! See you back at the inn then.”

“Yeah. See you then.”  
  


* * *

  
  


“Eat this!”

“You missed! My turn!”

A snowball barely grazes the side of your coat, landing some distance behind you with a soft thud. Your hands furiously form another from behind your makeshift barrier. “Don’t think you can beat me at a snowball fight!”

“I’m an Olympian volleyball player! That holds merit!”

“All the more reason why I’ll win!” You hurl the snowball directly at Bokuto again. “You guys aren’t playing dodgeball! And your Bokuto Beams _definitely_ won’t work against me!”

For reasons unknown, strength in the arts meant a karmic tradeoff for sociability and any semblance of being whatever society deemed _normal._

But it’s not like you really minded.  
  


* * *

  
  


An alarm rips through the silence. Somebody’s hand immediately dashes out to hit the snooze button.

“Ugh. Gimme five more minutes,” you mumble in your pillow.

“Don’t be like that, (Name)!” Bokuto says, right next to you. He sits up immediately, tossing his blanket to the side. “Bright and early to watch the sunrise, remember?”

A thick blanket of fog is still settled in your mind as you remain lying down. “I’m really going to regret this.”

“It won’t take long at all to get there!” His shadowy form walks over to your side of the bed. “Especially if we just—”

“Holy hell where are you taking me _oh my god_ ,” you ramble out as Bokuto hoists you up over his shoulder, making a brisk pace over to the bathroom. He sets you down and starts running the faucet, filling up his cup.

“Please warn me the next time you do that.” You slide a bit of toothpaste onto your brush and wordlessly hand the tube over to him. “In case you couldn’t tell, surprises this goddamn early in the morning aren’t my forte.”

“But did you like it?” he asks.

You stare in the mirror, eyes lit up by the light above staring back. 

“It’s whatever.”

In between brushing, he replies—“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“You be quiet.”  
  


* * *

  
  


**you**

_happy new year! (5:43)_

**akaashi**

_happy new year. may you have a blessed one this year as well._ (5:45)

 _i have no idea why you’re up this early, but have a nice day._ (5:45)

  
  


_same can be said to you_ (5:45)

 _good luck on the new series_ (5:46)

_thank you._ (5:46)

 _have a nice day then._ (5:46)

_...you alright? you already said that (5:46)_

_sure you’re not the one who needs sleep ww_ (5:47)

_seems like i probably do._ (5:47)

 _good… night then_ (5:47)

_have a nice one_ (5:47)

* * *

  
  


The ride up the cable car is silent, save for a couple muffled coughs. A couple people are also in it, bundled in heavy coats and scarves, looking similar degrees of tired. You watch in hushed awe as the scale of the city visible gradually increases, until everything comes into view.

“Please watch your step as you head outside. Thank you for riding with us today,” a voice over the speaker announced as the car halts to a stop at the top of the mountain. You shuffle out of the car, Bokuto right behind you, and walk over to the observation deck. A throng of people are already present, leaning over the rail in anticipation for the first sunrise. The two of you squeeze into a spot and wait, thankful that today has clear skies.

It’s not for long. Soon enough, the edge of the horizon lightens in color. With a hitched breath you watch as the sun rises, warming up the blues of the sky, a vibrant yet ordinary flame. It climbs past the Otaru cityline, spreading its gold hues across the vast expanse. 

You turn your head to Bokuto, who has his ever-cheerful expression on his face as he’s staring at you.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing much,” he says, leaning his head briefly onto your shoulder.

“Did you even watch it? You’re the one who dragged us up here.”

He wraps his arms around your torso for a brief second before pulling away. “Course I did. Saw plenty of what I wanted to see.”

“Wanna walk around some then? There’s a cafe somewhere”—your hand drifts lazily to what’s behind you—”around here.”

“Didn’t you say you were tired?” he asks, tilting his head. “We can just head back to sleep at the inn.”

“We’re already up here, aren’t we? Let’s just spend some more time around here. My treat.”

“This a _new year, new me_ situation?” Bokuto’s eyes light up. “You’re being scarily nice.”

“Take it however you want. I’m buying whatever I feel like.”

Without another word, you start walking forward.

Bokuto jogs to catch up with you after a final glance of the sunrise, arm barely brushing against yours.

His hand reaches out, knocking yours lightly in the process.

Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it wasn’t.

Even still, you intertwined his fingers with yours, the warmth of his palm flooding your touch.

Bokuto squeezes your hand.

You squeeze back.

The universe made it clear that your life would exist at the sacrifice of happiness many, many years ago.

But that doesn’t mean you aren’t going to reach for it.  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  


(“If we win the next Olympics, can I propose to you?’ Bokuto asks you, the sound of running water in the background.

Your hand pauses over flipping through the channels on his TV as you’re sprawled out over his couch. Tonight you had decided to crash over his place after he came back from two weeks’ of hopping around the country for the season.

“Where’s this coming from all of a sudden? Don’t you just want me for my soup curry?”

“That’s just an added bonus!” He turns off the faucet, drying off the last dish. “Anyways. Yes or no?” 

Bokuto takes a seat next to you, wrapping his arm around the top. You slide yourself up on the couch to give him some room. “Shouldn’t we move in together first before we do that?” you ask. “Do whatever you want. If you don’t win, we’re moving in together.”

He shrugs. “Aren’t we basically doing that already? What’s the difference?”

You continue scrolling through the channels, images of reality TV celebrities, nature, and commercials flashing by. “Pretty sure our leases are still very separate right now. You might get sick of me in a year. If not me, then at least the smell of turpentine.”

“Try me.” His hand reaches over to absentmindedly stroke your cheek. “Let’s move in together if I win the V. League final then.”

“Why are we even betting on this in the first place?” Finding absolutely nothing of interest, you switch off the television, tossing the remote on the table. “Should important decisions like these really be decided like _this?_ ”

“You got any better ideas?”

You raise an eyebrow. “And if you lose?”

“Move in together anyways?” he offers. Bokuto’s face is suddenly much closer to yours, as if expectant. “We’ll say you did out of pity.”

“Like that’s necessary,” you say with a grin, flicking his nose. “You’re paying for the beer then.”

“All the Sapporo you’ll need,” Bokuto murmurs in assurance. “That good enough?”

“You know me well.” Your face leans in closer to his, just shy of meeting. “Maybe too well. What’s up with that?”

“After all this time?” His nose brushes against yours. “It’s inevitable.”

Your mouth quirks up.

“Yeah, we’ll go with that.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, can you believe it we're done! click next for everything else!


	24. q/a + announcements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> make sure you've read the epilogue first!

Well, that happened.

First, here’s the answers to all your questions that you asked. If you want me to clarify anything, please don't hesitate to leave another question in the comments.

**What was the main inspiration for this story? // What inspires you to write? How do you get inspired?**

  
  


_A Thousand and One Nights_! I mainly wanted to write a better ending for Bokuto but also wanted to combine my own experiences, which is why I used an artist!reader instead of a writer one. If you’ve read that one, there are a good number of scenes and plot points I took from there. Other notable shoutouts are _Honey and Clover_ (TV) which features a group of art students in college, _Wave, Listen to Me!_ (TV) (the MC from that heavily inspired this one) and _Dance Dance Dance_ \+ other Murakami novels for the Sapporo/Hokkaido background.

On a broader scale, as you can probably tell from the myriad of influences just from this fic alone, a lot of what inspires me is honestly from other pieces of media (movies, TV shows, books, etc.), real life as well. To me, I don’t think ideas originate in a vacuum—there’s always going to be some sort of _thing_ that acts as an inspiration. 

  
  


**Are you an artist yourself?**

  
  


Yes! A lot of what the reader experiences through her artist career are some of my own. I studied extensively in fine arts (painting, drawing, etc.) during high school and now I’m studying film/dabbling in animation/digital art on the side.

(If you’re interested—my twitter is [here](https://twitter.com/adri__atic), I dump all of my art on there. Don’t be afraid to reach out!)

  
  


**How did you lay out the whole plot? Like what did you do to put the following events into chapters smoothly? // How did you plan the story? Did you have a plan for each chapter beforehand and then you wrote each chapter based on it? // Another question! Well, I guess I have to ask if you are more of a "plan every single chapter and then write" or a "write chapter > publish > write another chapter when you feel like it", I automatically assumed you were the first type so I wanted to ask if anything changed from the plan since you started writing until the end of it all! (but if you are the second this question doesn't make any sense)**

  
  


OK, this one’s gonna be a long one.

So I wrote a really basic overview of the plot from the start to beginning and let it sit for exactly a year. Everything was guided by the questions “How does this help reach the end goal?” or “How does this help develop the character?” Once I thought I could write this fic (spoilers: i still couldn’t at the very beginning), I sorted this out a bit further, writing really short bullet points of what happens in each chapter (ex.: reader goes to store, Bokuto and reader go to Wakkanai). Some scenes were added afterwards if I decided I wanted a “break” from the plotline (I’m a believer that not all scenes have to be essential to your plot). Towards the end I ended up planning it chapter-by-chapter while still keeping the basic overview in mind, writing each chapter as they go, which I lowkey regret doing since all the constant referring back to got a bit annoying.

If you’re also thinking of starting a long fic, I **highly recommend** writing a basic outline of how **everything** will plan out, it’ll save you a lot of time once you actually start writing it.

  
  


**How many time did you spend on researching all the facts about Japan, different locations, actual shops etc?**

  
  


A lot.

Like, seriously a lot. For each chapter I probably referenced some sort of material. And I still don’t think it’s enough. (*stares at the first chapter because I learned people don’t actually talk on cellphones on subways a bit too late*).

I have no experience living in Japan nor did I study it formalistically in school, so a lot of it was watching videos + Google Street View. Many of the locations mentioned actually have an equivalent in Japan/are an exact copy (the college reader goes to, the art supply store, everything in Hokkaido, the aquarium, museums, etc.). Much of what I found became the inspiration for some scenes as well (the Cape Soya bit in particular). For those also thinking about writing a post-timeskip fic, one of the perhaps relieving things about Haikyuu’s Japan is that a lot, if not all of it is completely made up (all the V. League teams and schools don’t exist IRL or are a loose inspiration from what already exists, to my knowledge), so don’t worry too much about having an exact 1:1. 

  
  


**Well, this is kinda not a question, but I'm curious to know if you have some details hidden that you expected people to pick but nobody commented on it, or if there are any little things that gave you comfort when they were there!**

  
  


There’s a couple—the title for chapter 19, sputnik (sweetheart) is the book title to the Murakami quote referenced. Some scenes/characters of what a future story coming out will center around is also scattered around … keep reading for more info :)

  
  


**I asked this on Chapter 13, when you couldn't answer, but did the starless nights had any meaning/had to do with Akaashi? I'd like to hear your perspective at it if it does have a deeper meaning!**

  
  


Honestly? Not really, though I suppose you could read it as having glimmers of hope with Bokuto/on the starry nights, and this not being present on the starless ones.

  
  


**This might have to do a bit more with your writing process, but there's this thing you do of reutilizing some sentences and changing little words or not changing them at all, I'm just curious if you plan like "Hmm, I will write this in Chapter 4 and use on chapter 16 again" or if, when you are writing, it just happens!**

  
  


Sometimes! Certain sentences I keep in mind to use for later especially if they show what a character’s current state is. The Akaashi = star is the big one I can think of off the top of my head, others I go back and sift through previous chapters to see if I can build off of any of the concepts developed in there.

  
  


**Will you write more of this story after an epilogue? // As someone who enjoyed every single letter of this work I have to ask, what are your next plans? If you have any! (and no rush!! i'm just curious but you need to take breaks and enjoy yourself so you don't burnout!!)**

  
  


Unfortunately, no more of this story.

This fic is more of a focus on how two people get together, not what a relationship between two people is like. There’s many ways a relationship can go and I wanted to keep that open-ended. Bokuto’s and Reader’s relationship honestly can go pretty well or crash—there’s definitely more things the two would have to work out for it to be successful. I’d like to think it will be though :)

However! That doesn’t mean this is the last fic from me (and thank you for the concern!)

Surprise!

In ATAON style, betcha didn’t see not one, but TWO post-timeskip fics part of this series coming your way in the near future!

Please prepare yourselves for their reveal...

  
  
  


  
  


*drumroll*

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**#1: Like Lovers Do**

Miya Atsumu thinks his life is perfect. You think yours couldn’t go any worse.

But there’s always a blessing in disguise, and a calm before a storm.

What happens, when the two of you collide?

OR

who needs memories, when all you need is right here?  
  


If you like SOL + romantic drama/comedy, this fic has it all for you, featuring: fake dating, a shopping district, friends-to-enemies-to-lovers, more weddings, and a dash of OsaSuna (which is completely unrelated to the topic but whatever). I also want to focus more on the life of a pro volleyball player here as well, as I don’t think Polaris gives quite the due justice. Reader will be a baker!MC, but… I do enjoy a good trope subversion every now and then :)

  
  


**#2:** **How Do You Dream? (wip)**

Not all those who wander are lost, but the two of you might as well be now.

Akaashi’s known sorrow for too long. You’re not in a much better position either.

OR

what does it mean to heal, when everything’s falling apart?  
  


Of course, I can’t just leave Akaashi hanging like that. This is more of a SOL/everyday life fic with much less drama and tension spliced in with some found family goodness. Also giving a better capsulation of the manga industry at large, both the good and the dark sides of it. For all of the Akaashi fans out there (and kind of for myself for doing all of That to the poor lad), this one’s for you. Still a bit up in the air as to how this will be set up, it might be a bit more “abstract” in terms of writing, but there’s going to be a heavier focus on characters. 

Note that these fics will be much shorter (under 15 chapters each). At the earliest, expect these coming out around the summer, though that’s still an extremely tentative date. Make sure to subscribe to this series (This Flawed Little Universe of Ours) if you want to get the notification when these are published!

For writings unrelated to this series, I’m going to focus back on writing one-shots (there’s quite a couple in store). In the very near future (I mean next month near), I'll be releasing a poetry/fic combination… be on the lookout for that.

I guess I’ll wrap this up with my own thoughts. 

I honestly haven’t been writing for long and I didn’t have much experience leading up to this fic asides from a small chunk of one-shots written over the years. Taking on this endeavor was something I _definitely_ wasn’t ready for and I didn’t really expect to finish this either. The fact that I could churn out chapters weekly came as a big surprise and as each got published, the reality of this actually being completed became more and more apparent.

And well, here we are after 23 chapters. There’s still a lot of things I wish I wrote differently but it is what it is. Hopefully you all didn’t mind the reader and her set background/personality too much—I like to write in readers with a little bit of something that isn’t always blank-slate and bland or absolutely chaotic and over the top. Even better if you were able to glean something from this mess, but I won't keep my expectations too high.

Special shoutout to my beta readers, Nya and Goldie, for listening to me scream about the plot at ungodly hours and being life-savers. Wouldn’t have been able to do this without you two.

To all the songs on the Spotify playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2W04ek2LQW45Z5BhLa198F?si=9jaT2BPgTgiZBqif8MHzUA), many of the songs were played on repeat for the duration of writing this fic, thanks for existing.

And of course, I have to thank each and every last one of you for reading and staying with this fic (all the post-publish edits and rewrites were probably not the greatest to deal with). Your support really kept me going through these past five months. It’s been a pretty tiring but enjoyable ride. Hopefully you all enjoyed this journey as much as I did.

Stay safe out there, and cheers.

—Shire


End file.
